the destroyer > text > C. Violet Eaton
You'll be there too what I say.
Krills & horse.
That lil boy he deserve it.
Two fat women raise hands and circle him, shouting.
& now he's an old man.
Sarcous. can't think like he used.
Behind the cigarette machine.
Which is too yellow.
Where he raised hell it too is too yellow.
Adipose, bone dice, pity, nocturnal.
Off. it's off.
That little pony now he's a horse.
& the two fat women that raise their hands.
The crack trade.
Put your hands down bitch.
I love you.
come point at the numbers
before I hide them away in leaves :
come into the dream where
you have a split lip, little $ lapping at the ankles :
where you are a diptych of prose & bloodloss
shepherded across my tongue
by three lower order choristers :
today on waking I will buy 4 oz. bacon & one roll :
tomorrow a cabbage, apple, some nuts :
the next day two 24 oz. beercans
& I will write my book-of-songs entitled "juke"
& I will protect you, for this book is knit
from the bear I shot in the moss :
his words awakened & they're in your hands now
& I give them to you, fawn