Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Punch's tongue

is swollen with this,
this pen's ink.
He etches a hex
upon his head:
a lovely kiss
some stolen bliss
O, where do
your eyes pry?

The ghosts never
bother, but
their bodies are
a nuisance.
Punch only meets
matter with his
cleaver--the rest
eludes, eviscerates
his better parts.
Renders and wrecks
him speechless.