Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Rubber Head

and like a rubber head my brain is settled
in a jar of filth and floats among debris
of love. And precious memories rot now;
not so much alive as they are kicking
my insides

fragile? not a word, I say. At least
it's not for me when you see how I dissemble -
full of trembling hate for skin and
temptations of the carnal kind; my body
bathed in tar

yes, like a rubber head my brain is settled
in a jar (ignored) and waiting for the cork
to pull and vent the waiting fumes into the air.
Alone, alone, the jar will sit, awaiting
studying eyes.

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