the man with the blow
darts shot
himself in the nec
pinnedskin to eggshell
plaster through shatterproof glass
telepath poles told
no lies to us folks, held
together by wheatstring and rind
They asked there is a bottom
to the bottomless hole you know
we knew of no empty fall
until we saw they're shallow cave
sketched to flesh and nightmares
never left us.
These terrors grow
mopfaced through starch
perched holidays that fill
the floors with mockery
of coping with coping
mechanically driven Turing
Trolleys guide tours
and tourguides are just
unbearable chip chip wood
chipped bed wetters glue
pieces into place
clog holes
oh clog holes
They measure the stained sheets
a map of slanted homes
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