by Melanie Browne
Death,
tickling our feet
with catfish whiskers;
the nose
with rabbit's feet;
sprouting weeds
at frozen graveyards;
(those crowded
ghostly wheels)
March 30, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Blog Archive
-
▼
2009
(479)
-
▼
March
(41)
- and God said something about image or maybe, the o...
- That Tricky Bastard
- War
- Envy-
- WHO QUOTETH A BIRD?
- HERE IN THE AFTERNOON
- the poetry is nothing to fuck with
- in this part of town
- returnee: commandments 6 and 3
- The Harbour Inn
- Reading List
- Biblical
- Incommunicable, Me
- blek keyt
- Growing Pains
- THE OTHER SPOT
- finger to ass
- trying to shake sad
- Loser
- Man Playing Sesame Street Theme Song, Metro Center...
- Audrius
- It Hurts When I Pee
- The Bar
- Mom
- Birthday Girl
- Yet Another Acid Tail
- LEFT RIGHT LEFT
- Lost My Brain
- The bag boy
- Oh, Lemmy
- Selfish Bastard
- dancing naked at woodstock*
- Touch of Evil
- Pizza Money
- Little Vietnam Woman
- READING THE POEM MY COUSIN WROTE THAT I HADN’T
- Tougher
- When My Mother Died
- a cold and bitter mistress
- Dry Socket
- GRAN TORINO didn’t win shit
-
▼
March
(41)
1 comments:
this is dark, but it is also whimsical and playful in terms of sound and imagery. and there's a very quiet, beautiful tension through the whole thing. it seriously moved me.
Post a Comment