Bodies are piling up
by Smokey Farris
Bodies are piling up.
Perhaps Dirk would have a mishap.
James may like to hack me up with
A chainsaw, in a game of
Pass the hot potato.
Nothing is more serious than death.
In a world of fleshy dioramas.
Rusting against the backdrop of
I blacken catfish over nettles of
Sweet violence and
Castrate the bondage known to
Litigate in the romance languages.
Her way of handling improbable
Handshakes casts wild shadows
On the barred owl waiting near
the barrier between rat life and
Hang town. Point me into her bed,
And I’ll rest my dead heat.