Some Mourn in Montrose                                             

Russell Brakefield & Benjamin Fidler

Kebbler, Copper, flatfoot fuzz. Tergaversative in our payphone calls,

  we were

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

auspicious hard-ons.

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 deceit.

Ambitious, the children are good at this.

They're nimble

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

  bread

and stale roustabouts.

Verse a breeze mid blossoms straying apple

flesh and beauty feigning the sound of timbales

and thunder raining. Hitchhiked

to Montrose

hubris oppugn.

drunk.

alone.

fucked.