Scared Text

HORNET FLEECE

2 NEGATIVE NOON Oxen are bad. Oxen are bad? Minus adjusted the clone’s hand.The hand grew cold. I heard his oud die. Dead, bad oxen. His shoulder creak caused a sting in my ear. His modes merged, formed a team. Aphid wounds make the house hurt, he said. My gut needs cake. The seared core tugged. I spoke my title and he hissed: Do not impinge upon my robes. No tent goes untorn. More glint, these beasts are ill. An abbreviation for beaten. * More gongs, enough to tear the room apart. Minus decoded “f”with theater pins. Divorced the curved curves chords have. How would Iris play the hollowed-out end of an ark rack? we hounded. Iris wandered out, assaulted by doves.Teal caskets. “f” is a forlorn purr. It beguiles dull sentries. The rooms in the fort fit together in a series of steel forgeries. Vials emit a mist of yes. If the clang from the hall revolver dies, hordes unite inside tombs. 2 His snores blow out lamps. Lest his lungs grow hot. * These nests end. These nests end, he blurred in his sleep. The cobra button broke loose until his cell glowed negative noon. Winding the loom like an idiot ant, I tried to reverse the topiary trap. Day hissed and our teeth tuned in. Our dirty arms got sunny. Quills dragged tongs across our names. I died to walk away. My dead doves reddened.Their puma leered while the coos waned. Medicine stored in their breath became bulbous.Was cud coalescing? The story stormed.The shorn grew gills. * Only Minus’s halo remained. Can helium herd? Could aluminum clot? Beastlessness disturbed the din. O corn, we cried instead. Doubled eels loomed, but what I fished for was a hiss that talked backwards. 0 Deep in the inert clouds, an analogy splits. A cold sardine awakens. Amber anemones flower shards. * Is this the ember’s big splice? we clanged, as the city’s signal burned. Iris’s multiples flung about, wed to interference. Hover longer, eater of bells, every angle ignites a wing. Mirrored wheat.Thuds. To deter owls, we use the azure comb. I am tired, says Iris, and the ants are staring. Minus plumbs an urn large enough for all the sentinel’s prayers. Ten surly lions. * This is Minus’s House. Bombs infuse blooms here. When Minus isn’t posturing, Iris is queen of the gray distance. Pre-gray, free. As in, Hand me another dosed star. As in, Sing rendered. Sing posed. * ...