Blood Me, the Room, Sighing

Blood Me, the Room, Sighing
by stephen chamberlain
Flayed width. Doesn’t. Say needle I must be gone or I tame what
lengthens–this truculent periscope: first a mane, then visage; a
stippled wind and phaeton coasting thick of black. If I pane the
sculpture, I lose rage, and my napkin.
The ostriches now make one horny, only as I tell of a coatless door; a
wind sung through with moons. Fins arching across the shore, activated
by switches, smelling their secretions.
But his name–a lurching trilobite and horseshoes. Tell me not to erect
fences, for I fear them. No I am strong yet position a crow on my wing.
I’ve sand for platelets, a rope to lever the syringe into tear ducts.
My my gig lamp–her the couch, supine, the glow ascending to torch the
bottle’s ache.

0 thoughts on “Blood Me, the Room, Sighing

  1. for me it’s all about the vowel sounds. they seem to be teaming up musically, especially in the second part.
    the images are connected in ways you sense instead of see. barely linear indeed. and a mysteriously appropriate title.
    i really loved this too.

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