Poetry

A million children dead in the alley and no cameras or important stars to kiss, so she left them, to wander across the troop cemetery with her olive-green rucksack, across these faux mountaintops first engineered in an age lit by her burning parents, and we are still taking the shortcut to the church on our way to meet the dealer. And here I recall was a small girl's-portal overseeing the western lawn. From there she stared, breathing in a flame of that Spanish windowpane, at the war trench fringed with splintered bone in a mane. Then her figure refreshed itself again in her whispering motorhead.

Sopping the oil from the vestments, her left hand grazed Mother's damp lap and its match sputtered, still smoking in God's pink cretonne fringe. She purchased (only to return) the coffins full of human sperm, as her brother dressed the bodies in pink cretonne to resemble her whispering motorhead. She did not care for the branches that scratched her nipples as she swam, and she could not admire the politics of the handsome animals beaten at their own game, their engines prettied with peach pleats and midget gold fronds. Beneath her feet the clotted fronds. She had not once been called upon. Her number remained in the slot.

No man worth her salt stood beneath the gaudy stucco elms, as the olive-oil lanterns still smoked in God's pink cretonne fringe with splintered bone in a mane. Her brother lifted her pulsing tallow head and curled his mechanic's body beneath her whispering motorhead.

October/November 2004

Her Whispering Motorhead by Dale Michael Houstman A million children dead in the alley and no cameras or important stars to kiss, so she left them, to wander across the troop cemetery with her olive-green rucksack, across these faux mountaintops first engineered in an age lit by her burning parents, and we are still taking the shortcut to the church on our way to meet the dealer. And here I recall was a small girl's-portal overseeing the western lawn. From there she stared, breathing in a flame of that Spanish windowpane, at the war trench fringed with splintered bone in a mane. Then her figure refreshed itself again in her whispering motorhead. Sopping the oil from the vestments, her left hand grazed Mother's damp lap and its match sputtered, still smoking in God's pink cretonne fringe. She purchased (only to return) the coffins full of human sperm, as her brother dressed the bodies in pink cretonne to resemble her whispering motorhead. She did not care for the branches that scratched her nipples as she swam, and she could not admire the politics of the handsome animals beaten at their own game, their engines prettied with peach pleats and midget gold fronds. Beneath her feet the clotted fronds. She had not once been called upon. Her number remained in the slot. No man worth her salt stood beneath the gaudy stucco elms, as the olive-oil lanterns still smoked in God's pink cretonne fringe with splintered bone in a mane. Her brother lifted her pulsing tallow head and curled his mechanic's body beneath her whispering motorhead.