New Bees

Ass over teakettle tip tit for me
Throw that arrow up
up up in my wintry tree
in my hunter-wasp lyceum not for bees

I write as I smash with my metagnathous mouth!
I laugh and I be as one made in the south.

He has a crossbow and three Shakespeare and that
cant be all he wears, there must be a costume switch
Somewhere
while we’re here

in these chairs

There are little people that run the little dime store down town
I bought a dime novel
and a dime bag
some dim sum
and some lychee

with my finger
it’s stored away with bees

my stinger
and beak
don’t break when they seep.

I’m a wasp with chats.
Chats that don’t sleep.

Notes

Tampered with painted backyard rock and dead bird

And that wasn’t the birth the first was about wood and collectiveness
And then I agreed
We will push forward

And REVEL

While our decay blooms.

Man they would hate me.

Paper by paper
we smite
down down
nervous flight

Doused sprouts
Peppered rug

Among stones and sand we grunted our way through ouches and ooooos
Brutal hunters spilling blood around gathered wooden slabs crackled by pretty
Dancing flame.


‘Pound O Sword’ [not finished, not working on it]

Two sat atop high mountain, pinked clouds sliding
Across the first light of the peeking morning
Whirling up a breakfast fire, pans warmed
They sent for bloody meats, warm wine, aged long
And watched fawn and doe about tall timber
Before they filled their gut

The sun filled itself
undivided by its abut horizon