Philip Sorenson



a new membrane to fill that is filled and then in an instant a tearing a new skin to be filled
an infancy pregnant as rooms utterly full with screens and people talking their lips never
stop they're always moving calling a boiling over and steam the trash the heaps of trash
and everything is full of leaking fluid of fluid leaking into my body I can hear the river
my bleeding nose

the reflection of a porcelain hand in a screen

a mouth opening and closing and the body it describes is the body

with the mouth with the words in the mouth


the protuberance a boil growing to the point of bursting the skin

endless webbing and a portrait of the animal
building its nests covering the world

with the incrustation of syllables hanging like convicts

or clouds of wasps and they sting our faces and fight
and tug like foals to free their gametes all mouth

all mouth filling and spitting

what is the difference between the

tongues and their victims
languishing like enormous nudes on velvet couches

it makes you and you cannot help yourself and in the end there is no escape

standing over your body it points here here here

wings and skins the flies carry on

willows and thin lips and fingers
yellow leaves

a bag of loaf bread plugged into the willow trunk
woven branches leave

[how the horns the lookouts
on wintry planets

squeal grimacing their fingernails
painted silver long streaks of quiet]

shapes left under the grass
as a summary of things [crickets]

as lips keep the tongue
from pushing out into spaces

we played cards
we drank gin

the sun was purple and gold and red
it set lower and lower in the sky

clotted in bees and flies

cabs of wings
push out of the underground in our daughter

how move the horns

of silence and of silence moving under the skin under the dress a small prawn

a seahorse bobbing up and down in the aquarium


on the forest floor
hands inside a hive

looking for some honey

not to eat
but to be a golden flowing of bumbling
bumbling marched over by the bees

       veiled children running from
       their first communion mass burned
       up like a black worm

       a firework dropped in the middle
       of a field

       but the Sun is just a crab swimming
       up from the Moon

light grows floury a rotating tesseract above the corn
the hand is catching moths



in the dells

the hand is feeding apples

lifting up each disproportionate fruit
from a paper bag


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