by Michael Standaert
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Empty out the streets
Here come the magpies erected in glass
Working the crowd in their sights
Parading meat, fireworks, ceramic tanks
Where will we go when they end the march?
Backwards, nails scratching the dirt
Come lick their fingers
And taste the decay of the day
Watch where you spit the seeds, though
They can land in boots of the young
Mostar, San Salvador, Budapest
Can't you see their beautiful glue eyes?
As they burrow the hills of garbage
Sucking cock behind the dumpster
The tourist drops his load in the young boy
And goes back to Brussels to crawl into a file cabinet
Strike up the bass drum, ring the bell
Blow the trumpet, take one last slash across the strings
Roll in the green glass, stroll the heaps
Run around the corner, stick your head in the hole
Afraid of the daylight? Twirl that baton!
Stepping on violets
Call me cruel
But I like to watch her mouth
When it writhes in pain
While I give her pleasure
Like crushing a violet beneath your boot
The most beautiful one at your feet
Maybe it is some sort of action
A stepping over to the gods
And crossing into paradise
Fat Man
You are constantly eating, fat man
Devouring all that lies before you
Sucking the blood from the bones
Desert awaits you, or could it be dessert
Why do I sit a million miles away
As if on the moon, biding my time
Watching you pluck the fruits from the earth
You bite in, but most dribbles down your chin
Starving, ever insatiable
You want more, more, more
I give you my arm
Take it, healthy American prime
Who will plant the harpoon
In your overwrought belly
You great white whale
You disturb me with your devastation
Are my hands that weak?
Why do they tremble so?
Is it suicide?
Would I die along with you?
So be it
And let the sharp point
Go straight to your heart
Along with my own
Let us be humble
And lay down in our graves
Together
As the grasses grow over us
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