Ho|ma|ge to Edvard
Munch, image by Daniel Y. Harris
ted hughes and sylvia plath
even mytholmroyd has the routine
telekinetic port for the hacked off heads of purple calves and stray dogs and
the savage birthmarks of condor holy robed in rotted verdigris skinned and
piled pyled and skinned for shade and dishclout the blackish lump blackpurpled
bloodball incendiaries wordwrecked and womb punctured sucking the bone shanks to
kingdom come bobs the back end stuck out as crooked as the lunatic lean split
gut havoc of a muscled scato tunnel manned by gassy midgets with skin diseases across
the mortal shock to hear the urine stained holy cock die by the fire of two
blackcut malaiseys snap the hinge of skin the mother flesh fingering right back
to the porthole of the pelvis white red black purple plush and pink fizz wrestling
with her groins his groins no groins severed and cemented to the scissored tombeau
flip this homunculus flip this trespass of vulva to squeeze past the neck to
lance the boils of useless in this armpit of the canon crotchpit of the canon
or canonic piggrunt redwhite tumuli skulled plated and clear bones and
acanthine hair are littered against that wobbly vertebrae or if you must push
the wobbly pushback of pulp tendon vein vertebrae ligament sinew deadlocked to futility
it must die they must die we must die in something like a barbwire snare in
this new century of advanced simplicity and the mustard gas of bad poetry to
eye your wobbly knees to snare right into the cancer of your average and normal
and expected chronicle hooked into the bored loop of one more drone reading by a
deadlocked averagaton who should be killed before taking the mic and mounting a
campaign to kill the spirit yolkyellow gummy squared normal obvious heraldic in
the crass narratives of ivy or less but ranked beside the hackoff head of the
genius you can never be and hate
—Daniel
Y. Harris
