untitled

 

w/in the opera curtains
of yr heart
brandishing matchbooks & accelerants
such atavistic
impulses
this is getting considerably daft
2nd ave.
some chance fotos
of you
& so on ’til we lose focus
debriefing
each other on the finer points of knife-fights
& haiku
so don’t take this too seriously
please?
running sideways into sunny triangles
remember
storm-cloud gin & clunky
tulips whilst
driving a firetruck through my aorta
the appearance is
disquieting
as a windowpane strewn w/blood
as we make love
reminiscent of ottava rima & minimalistic
treble clef stet
what i’m trying to articulate
is equinoctial
is that i want you to break my heart

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*ld gr*wth tr33s, w:ldfl*wr swall*ws

 

this morning i woke up, ragtime carnations
gilded daylight
thin and foto-blue underneath
the syracuse
of last evening’s knotted-chaparral pulse

nerve furnace
wheat rung, undecided art

this afternoon’s time zones, doppler effect
a polaroid equinox
we are building our own defiant heartland
w/ surface & depth
tin foil, a sprawl of baby’s breath

nor’easter
ferric oxide interludes

this evening’s proselytized symbology,
a mimeographed aria
the only way this is going to work
is if the blood is disrupted as it elides the premise
b/c we need this barb wire

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justin mcelfresh was (ostensibly) caught hanging fire outside the barricade of a semicolon soldering a quiet sunday afternoon to some previous clause; he has come to the conclusion that ‘biography’ is a filing cabinet in arrears. that being established, the author is ensconced in oakland, california considering the bank shot of this miniature story. he is having a bully day. are you having a bully day?