Monday poem

a pre-recorded migraine, you
are the sound of computer-generated euthanasia.

add water to dirt to make mud
add pain to heart to make hate.

bruised heart the color of sunset
listen to the space where words used to be
gravel pit, california gold mine
no one cares if you've got the london look if your birdhouse is too small.
come back to cornfield, blackberry patch, transatlantic phone call
do you know where your mother is?




(monday 12 august 2013)