A dog barks, “Wood shed. Wood shed.”
The weather has tattoos and my couch
is ragged, whistling, fucked. A chain-link
bench, cold-cutted from the bass drum pig’s
upright parade, passes our skunk-game
of murder-in-the-park. The swing sets country
western-cow licks, stifled by God’s bear hug.
Sunshine, broken open on a sidewalk,
is not fat but a miracle of buoyancy.
I overcame my can-do attitude.
Burroughs is buried in a dorm room.
My friend kicks cop-shins shouting "Fascist!”
I am nervous. I am trying not to laugh.
Fin wildly like the claw found your jugular.
I bought a prank can of nuts at a yard-sale.
Peel away the lid: God pops out.
The springs are sharp enough to be dangerous.
I am birthday candles.
I am wax-on frosting.
I am ipecac. I am charcoal.
I am clam-baked in the trove
where everyone’s virginity is stored.
The weather has tattoos and my couch
is ragged, whistling, fucked. A chain-link
bench, cold-cutted from the bass drum pig’s
upright parade, passes our skunk-game
of murder-in-the-park. The swing sets country
western-cow licks, stifled by God’s bear hug.
Sunshine, broken open on a sidewalk,
is not fat but a miracle of buoyancy.
I overcame my can-do attitude.
Burroughs is buried in a dorm room.
My friend kicks cop-shins shouting "Fascist!”
I am nervous. I am trying not to laugh.
Fin wildly like the claw found your jugular.
I bought a prank can of nuts at a yard-sale.
Peel away the lid: God pops out.
The springs are sharp enough to be dangerous.
I am birthday candles.
I am wax-on frosting.
I am ipecac. I am charcoal.
I am clam-baked in the trove
where everyone’s virginity is stored.
Tyler Burdwood plays music in a band called bellwire and likes to write poetry. He attends Lesley University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.