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alarm clocks trampled on the sidewalks, massah.To Luke Buckham's previous piece     all the obvious shadesTo Luke Buckham's next piece


your mouth will stop here

the stopsign will be the upraised flushed backhand
of a wifebeater all his fingers bitten off by a beardless god
all your highways will be the rapist's penis
shredded to useless ribbon by the beak of a hotel-room coathanger
i sniff your newspapers like dry outermost onion peels
and grimace like a bent kitchen knife
where is your carcrashed heart?
did it come to rest under the rhetorical root of a house leaning toward the river?
Pussy Delicious Machine Blue Showerhead Haze Upended Into Sandpits 
in the bowels of your early evening TV
white feather walls clench your tiny heart
squeezing the jungle of your shadows as 
you wrench the arm of a seagull off in your blue teeth
the ant i swallowed at 3 years old
squirms in the back of my left hand, has a whole vein's passageway to himself
i feel his firm exoskeleton blackness nestled in my bloodstream
god takes his hand upward through my thighs and 
into the yellow backwards harp music of my solar plexus
between the snowbanks like dehydrated dead angel gravy
and the snake belly of the powerlines zippered suddenly shut
silver pacemaker waiting on the surgeon's dinner plate
to enter me as he eats it with a mouth dirty as a car tunnel
what if joys come like fire and burn my mortgaged house
what if the faucet water turns black when i go a year without kissing
every time i walked beyond the last light of this town
a chained dog complained with the mew of a kitten
in the crackling bones of my right heel
leather wearing thin as beauty runs through the house of my mute dentist
midnight takes off her bra and her nipples are perfect as hailstones
on the back of the future's tongue, smeared tastebuds
a campfire in your toilet 
a bird rebuilt with radio antenna bones
wings sad
kill me music and i'll live
shadows nudged finally by fire in a lounge of plush static
my tongues outnumber the calendar's sentimentalities
the year is a solid holiday anointed by parched lips
every letter hurts when my violin is under his foot
his name is Liar
on every TV
his name is Liar
and i don't believe.
my brain stem remoistened in backwards rivers, a saltless century
redeemed by the floral horns of the knuckles of my hands, 
red, holy in every walled hour, a hallelujah in the year of zero

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