Читать книгу Fauxhawk - Ben Doller - Страница 9

THE FAUXHAWK

don’t go squawk in the forceps shop

go (up) (get born) amok!

rundown your block in a toque or in a flock of spots all tigerlilylike

or just stop giving order

to don’t go get shot

you’re not and never

will be hawk

rather one of those delicious birds

who chooses walks

I taught I taw tis evening evening’s cotillion, thing-

craft as a comet complex, copper-cropt-cop buzzard, in its sliding

through the slipstream sonic boom booms the freon-drawn air, and wilding

right there, how it sang upon the scene a careening screaming

in its targeting! Then on, on on it flings

as its steel hurl rolls hard towards a compound: the remote eyeing

reset the map-scale. My flesh in writhing

groaned for a drone,—the R/C of, the detachment of the sling!

Bully booty and power and tact, oh, flair, guide, BOOM!, here

Rubble! AND the pyre that breaks into flame then, a zillion

Times told shinier, more mushroomy, O my musketeer!

No wonder in it: vaped bods make Cloud-cowed civilian

Ka-Ching, kids disremembered, ah my dear,

the report cannot be independently verified.

my stooges shirt

my stooge

popular iggy peanut butter

I wear my stooges under work shirts

to stage rage to play

a little ditty to raw power

to passenge alive in

sweatwater bathtops

in heroin hats

the white rats

covered up

half shaved

primate

curing a common

cough