Talls up our helmeted stingers.
Marches through the torn up zero farm,
casing. Dew boss: ants in tow.
A cup of paintings, atonal moves,
a row of mounts, the ordnance for delousing
colours, the noosing glass. Two bosses
by the forgone blank. It is now or.
Ear turnovers shall ever maroon us.
With our stash of latitudinal rope,
heavy kneels on a guard else he bark out,
“Line and door,” else he squeal out, “Fast root
gondola is here.” Lay shears, grab and ran,
only fool me can fool me. Through me beat
an orbit a secure deck whereupon
eggs bring negresses in dugouts.
Carnal diamond lids lidding the loose
dusk sea. Do it on tight.
A knot called Sudan Throat.
“Pore Tune” was first published in Fence, issue 7, vol 2.