Monday, September 24, 2018 at 12:22AM
David Antrobus in #MeToo, benzodiazepemes, clawfoot tub, dreams, fingering, goats, hillsides, repressed, ungulates

I might well add 

lorazepam to this list. 

Please. Let me slip, then sleep. 

Decades of congregants 

arm-linked with benzos, all

gleaming like cumulative

dreams. I wanna hiss and creep

assembled purple, yet

they’re reds and blues and most

refuse to even meet. Summoned 

and huddled below the hills.


Aye, I crawled and hurled in 

your clawfoot tub.


Your throat is open; I will bring only kindness.


This. Oh, this. You harvest this… 

Never forget the blue-scratch scry of the sky.

You ready yet? You marshalled 

flocks and stockpiles. Corralled

a mess of ungulates. Oh. You,

woke and vital, primed to 

track and keep on following,

ceaselessly fingering me,

blastocysts and humunculi, 

enduring, narcotized, eternally 

transgressed. Is this

how each and every goatlike story 

dreams-undreams, and trips upon its end, 

restless, barely dressed, so endlessly



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