Postcard: Disable Spellcheck
Copyright © 2012 by Joyelle McSweeney.
I’m the matron-king of hell In yoga pants and a disused bra for a laurel & shatter the scene inside your simmering year Like a ransom scene filmed through shattered transom I smear in my glamour I make as if to justify the ways of God to man That’s my ticket in That’s why God lets me speak here Crystostoma’d on his couch Even though I’m derived from Hell Hellish Helenish Hellenic I’m the hanged man in this version pegged up in mine pegged jeans by mine ancles, an inversion mine manacles are monocoles I spit out the key and squinny through the keyhole back at the unquittable world
Makes derangéd love To the muddy hill. Shoots of green knocked sideways On a factory floor. Next to the stopflood Retaining wall, sprung rhythm. Just as A center for Islamic banking Furls green writing like a blooming branch across the screen, visible Pop-up ad of the market or green fuse. In a wiry flash, A living goddess with a threefoot eye Bends o'er her spreadflat copybook, contemplating a career at maths. I've always been good at maths, And how they multiply, and how they multiply, and how they Lock in a pop-fly, snag the interface, shatter the salary cap, Thwack.