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Bite
Bite now.
No time to tinsel tendons.
Take heart,
take blood. One
pulse here
needs its
pit.
Go body on me.
Spit whatever’s spare
there:
***
Mail
No need to prove
God substantial,
debunk death.
You’re gonna post
some thing of your
self:
a fresh hurry,
unmusked by its wimple envelope,
cadenced slow lick,
umami-rose,
and in one
send me
to night’s Incest House.
Demand nacreous solutions; make
us family.
Make us fucking family.
***
Tops
Perfume or poison.
Everything’s risk. Nevertheless, I don’t want
anyone’s view of me.
I getta grip, just as I
believe. I
never c’n tell if
this is calm or storm:
some sort of miraculous
discovery
recovery.
In
either event I’m
both saving and drowning.
Sunday’s cure for hecticity
was Jesus walking on
water.
One little s(l)ip and I threat-
en to tip.
Therefore I wait: pull myself
round. Up. Out.
‘N bottle it.
Stoppered. Transparent.
Everything’s risk.
***
Wild (haiku-em)
In Common Horse-tail,
locked. ’tranced by Pendulous Sedge.
Up to Tufted Hair.
Then Cock’s Foot, oh my
Flowering Rush, Quaking Grass.
All fist sticky. Vased.
I’ve picked, bunched, watered.
Mmm, see how still the Marram
holds the Marestail
down.
Cotton or Bottle?
I wonder how your penis
would do, tamed by hand.
***
Bio: AnnMarie Eldon was born in Birmingham, England and raised in one tiny 2 up 2 down house in a terrace which inspired her nom de plume. She has been in previous incarnations, wife, psychotherapist, corporate wizardatrix. Previously to September 2001 she divided her sense of irony between homes in the US and UK. She now attempts her escape from mediocrity within the confines of a picturesque Oxfordshire town, juggling hormones, various children and dogs.
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