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Like Heathcliff on the Moor

He comes in the worst part of the night.

The moon has either set

or never risen.

There are no intelligent constellations


His Mother rips off her dress as

he slides fishlike from her V.

His Amniotic Sack.

The Caul of Good Fortune.

His eyes.

Dark and bright.

She names him Judas

because she likes the name.

When he is twenty-two he will

Win the War.

Across the hall someone else is born and

lives three minutes.

The air.

Filled with a high pitched keening.

Like Heathcliff on the moor.

First Published by Sacred Chickens

Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.

Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem

The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh

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