hanging wormy pelt

can’t bark, can’t bark







here, projected, is my body…

what a roaring scent,

what a roaring scent it lets fly…!

is dead…,

is dead and rotting…



in its murkiness,

a sparkling maggot

scoffs at my swift

deterioration…



calls me a rustic,

a no class churl,

no finesse whatever

in the liquefying arts;

such a crying, such a bore,

such a boor, such a crying

inability to render oneself,

or at least to render

graciously oneself

back to the clean humus,

such as one always

certainly should…



and now in her smugness,

she shrieks…

a corpse beetle

lands in her field.



the sparkling maggot

bristles most aggrieved.



fetid quills are crossed,

the fierce adversaries

disregard the juicy meal

of my body…

rotting fast.



lugubrious, the victor

the vanquished devours

as any mother would

her gutsy abortion.



as the sparkling beetle

now flies away,

my body, a derelict,

a sinking deserted wreck,

melts with…,

melts with the sea.



the sea, a juicy…,

a juicy meal

from a bigger corpse yet.



the sea harmonious,

the warring…,

the warring oceans cacophonous,

the blue, the blue…

Hats

About hats severally worn by the born (1) these are the hats I wear the hats people forget at my side whenever I’m sitting at the brinks of abrupt precipices. these are the hats nipped and scratched often too deeply just maybe as the people who wore them and gave them up. those are the exhausted supernumerary hats I find after the people who forgot them behind suddenly up and decided to jump or else step leisurely into the ravine. those are the hats I wear as unwearable maybe as the people who left them behind people who up and marched with a will toward the abyss. those are the hats of people some of whom were allowed to descend flight by rough and jagged and craggy flight to their uppermost bliss while others were forbidden the luxury and had to leave behind (with their derelict hats) those excess years and riches and felicities and their droves of children in a spasm. those are the hats I wear as those that wore them up and disappeared down the chasms and forgot them near where in his secluded niche the surrogate wearer waits and waits… as the master winds blow up the world as the master blower blows up a crude bottle where the scene could be before shattering condensed…? (2) before my stunned eyes a hat blew in the storm I was disoriented strange city heavy rowdy traffic blinding gaudy lights I had been eating grapes with the friendly inhabiters of a crumbling house deep pools of rain where the rats wallowed but now we needed bread to eat with the remaining grapes and I was so disoriented emerging into the busy artery I didn’t know where to turn the smells were injurious the lights hurtful the dislodged hats blew around and about whirlpools of incongruous objects in eddies of splintering hats the crazed cars rammed down dogs and pigeons and tykes and left those unspeakable messes behind so that new cars rapidly passed above and with a vengeance trying to obliterate the hideous soilage the revolting outrage I was utterly disoriented the offensive smells the garish neons the clattering stabbing hum I submerged myself back meanwhile and when even without a puny loaf underarm I reached again the dilapidated house new lodgers were busy about and worst putting in new shiny appliances were the rude bullying servicemen who chased me away like another grubby discarded putrefying hat.