unintended deer vertebra
what saying nothing sounds like
out of sequence.
the tongue’s track marks
when midnight calves its elaborate
neck of the woods.
barely endangered, i’m drizzling
the speed of language that fails
still like milk is killed.
minus sharp yards
minus the weather’s under
in the grown up fungus stutter
alive in vines, what bodies feel like
without their theology.
hunkered up plus muscles.
lost & ground.
a stung accretion my purity
ring flinches adrift.
the gorgeous anger crashes of heaven, hunger graffiti
stalked hard as goodness scraped from amethyst brain damage
the middle of the day bruises me with its ridiculous optimism.
skins betwixt upchucked and viral
eager as neon squished in a tube: i can’t understand
phenomena that do not require an extinguishing material.
nostalgia frequencies, i’m converting my aorta hardware
into a glamorous apartment that shits out acid and cake
and bent crotchless dogmatism a billion percent
more space mansion’d than the dark acreage of the balding.
lo, the north is fortified.
colossal winks the storebought dawn, the accessorized plants’
braille sodomy like a banjo lesson too fluent in forms of such wizardry:
knowledge returns like a machete
clotted with orchid pulp and monkey brains.
a standard fog drunk off its own saliva, cell towers
honking my veins into coal-stunned weeks elderly with rhetoric:
how much gorgon bandwidth hunts my skull, moonskewered and whatnot?
what burly urge glows infra as the tangible whumpus babbles forth
some stunk concussion called city i want to bury in gardens of vintage god?
afterlife rooms: imagine the world but napalmed with barbie clothes.
“overcome. Volt of hysteria jag”
hind-most chirp of sunlight, ex-beautiful
night like a single lavish spasm of money, the mereness
of instructions slaughter me.
dechurched. screwdriven. augmented-by-mange.
“me”: dear permanent universe, please stop selling “forever,”
the grotesque dimensions of the pure
volume of your emptiness. “zig-zagged & holy
I” caress every atom of my body into a kinda violet madness
that never solves itself. because it’s on successive
damage. because it’s anonymous
as a cartel of drunk flowers. because it’s made of everything
i do not have controls for.
have you seen all the buttons in the world?
well they are not enough.
unmemoired/ the spit of weeks/
“will not unravel: O pinking
shears” the messiah-esque royalty moans, its falsetto
glimmering like a tragedy.
“O sawtoothed one,” the preceding poem tangled
itself askance by
(All quotes stolen from Rebecca Dunham.)
James Schiller is the editor of SWINE, an online magazine of contemporary poetry. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in elimae, Everyday Genius, > kill author, Knock Magazine, Cream City Review, and others. He blogs at oldtestamentdeaththreats.com.