Thursday, December 24, 2009

CIL V 1 3442





Son of an Equestrian.
Source is a fragmentary inscription. Found in a field. The sad augur, can only feel the puss that rolls down the throat. Can't find the direction the bird moves in, it is clawing out from the sternum. Breaking bone, then to skin, hole left in the chest. Too wet to fly.



I put my hand over your stomach trying to feel my own scar. My scar on my own stomach. This is the tenth mistake. So stuck.



Joining the Palace of Tiberius to the Temple of Ricinus communis (LINN.), ages fourteen to eighteen. A dog-tick, name christened for the form of the seeds. This purgative. Cold pressed, rubbed in, to increase this flow of milk.



Weening with this menstruum.



As lost as Doubtful Phraseology .
Dead, just left his body under a pumice stone.





Half eaten, the porous fermentation. The last Oxymel that is browning, distempered, ringworm are small enough to eat it off of the nape.



Piss felt warm for a second.

Got cold inside your jeans later.

1 comment:

magick mike said...

are these your words? if so i'd like to ask if i can publish this entry in the third issue of LIES/ISLE, which is themed THE DOUBLE (www.liesisle.com)

lemme know!