Atrocity Exhibition

Of wind, the most of lost. Of slhivering—the
Buckled windows widowed how
the shliver of spirit hauled from its wan
strongbox,
won.

I repeat: of wind no wonderment as helpless.
I need a reader, someone to weed
the leaderless cursor of its burst patrimony.

Our heroine, our heroin, whose ravished
imbroglio of hair trawls a scowl
where the prow, Presidential,
bangs.

Loverless curvature: the reversed charges pimp and plump
and plop down fifty a pop: raw dog.

People do, horrorible, things to them self which are each other.

From cashpoint to whiplash, fluffing the glossily
fragrant pages of Vanity Fair.
We sign dumbly, without subtitles, smeared with screech and brakelight.
There’s a verb in her brassiere.
My son is one. You’re one too.

A portrait is hung, a man is hanged.
Thick with falsetto coyotes with methlab and roulette,
a slave salve, a valvéd, rifted delve.

The letters of the Hol­­_ywood sign
lift off two by two. You’re one too.