Some Mourn in Montrose
Russell Brakefield & Benjamin Fidler
Kebbler, Copper, flatfoot fuzz. Tergaversative in our payphone calls,
tepid in our haste to return to what we know.
A sophist makes this world glow.
A soft and uncoiled and mistakable
wanderer in the streets of banaltropolis. Cozen in pumpkins and
A bird in the hand-job is a four corner's rim-job
and cutting cane below borderlines
breaks backs and brows.
This disadjustment will no doubt never end,
like waiting on a train and catching syphilis on a bus.
Dawn to our waking drifts in the green cool light.
Down of the rot baking stride on the gonner cold night.
Wend to dot in bang brides know her range dock bight.
Ambitious, the children are good at this.
fingers peeling cold and cutting nutmeg
besides the furnace. We wept for the less well off
and remorseful. We thought the Mississippi was a bit overrated.
As in autumn when the leaves begin to fall one after another until the
branch is witness
to the spoils spread over the ground, and we witness the spoils of
and stale roustabouts.
Verse a breeze mid blossoms straying apple
flesh and beauty feigning the sound of timbales
and thunder raining. Hitchhiked