a bed, ash, near a sink, a beeday
she has recouped control of her tongue
but spit comes through all the same
a lot of spit oozes out around the rag and falls to the floor.
she is beginning to laugh beneath the binding
she is yelping through the gag & I haven't even touched her yet.
she is blowing on me somehow. Is there a hole in her?
blind, garrotted, apple-mouthed, armless,
she snorts on my shoe for now she may begin to be unsure.
oh violence, it's no laughing matter.
pay the police for years my brother!
or else then they'll take his organs for harvest
wise to cremate him
I see my brother again in a marble urn,
mostly wood, now, my brother.
for Christian Ebner & the Bonne Armelle
we switch our branch to preserve the corolla of wonders
all for no fewer than twelve churches
possess among their sacred relics
his mottled, virulent prepuce