The Butcher and The Cock

May 15, 2005 17:18

i.

It was a magnetic jingle racing

semiotics;

and the rooster only crows at dawn-
his cackle-voice
soothing rip-chord
sudden cause tambour effective

vocal, and a reverse affect
on the rear roaded asphalt plane
of this driving diving
precision ship that sets a
westward empire sun because

the times have changed.

iiº.

Yes, the apple crated,
emblazoned insignia
without a peach [we said apples]
on the body, bloodied, bolting

'round midnight

er, closer to his graven headstone
we all waited
forks and cutlery at our teeth

{like god's shoeshine}

that thin white line of separation
between the chrome of weighted stainless
and the pulsing throbbing chest
of would be soon to dine
to s-e-p-a-r-a-t-e
our own anxiety
between a discerning creep of indecision
but mainly timing at which we would
with guilded primal
serrated or fingered,

tear limb from socketed manifold torso.

III.

Like husband and supple wife,
a passing of the two at once-
the mismatched pairs!

His nature enough to catch one by the tongue
her rounded frame a complimenting catch for chloride;

and the double take
followed by a rhyming gesture through porrous skull-caps,
were an equal comparison
to that igneous rock,

or perhaps a scholarly haircut.

And together they gave us the rooster's last dance,
their mixture of everyday commoner constraint
to settle within, without, in memory

of a meal rewarding,
for an ending,
at last.
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