They Don't Kill You Because They're Hungry, They Kill You Because They're Full. Mark Bibbins

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СКАЧАТЬ for me, how do I get anything

      done when as late as last night

      someone started yelling CARDINAL

      at the sight of blood soaking my sleeve.

In the Corner of a Room Where You Would Never Look

      Warhol was right, he said athletes are fat

      in the right places

      and they’re young

      in the right places. Apparently

      the next Godzilla movie has Godzilla

      just running around eating everyone’s

      money and it’s the scariest thing ever.

      We can rub bug powder on the national

      anthem and run that over the closing credits

      as long as the singer manages to sing

      I’m in love with everyone but you, almost

      convincingly. A production team undoing

      one another’s pants

      is How We Get Naked Now but tomorrow

      morning all the cut-off parts of us are coming

      back so get ready. Europe: you swear it exists

      because you once had sex in it, and ideas.

      Prepositions: that’s where we all get sucked

      under. Prepositions: the San Andreas

      fault of meaning. Prepositions:

      what came dislodged when our parents

      hired operatives to kidnap us from cults

      and deprogram us in the backs of vans.

      Warhol was talking about the ass,

      right, which we have come to understand

      is the vessel of histories. That effect.

      We put everything through

      a translation engine

      because we wanted to see the world.

Terminal

      —tonight no one should be caught

      fondling on stoops

      when they can climb up on

      the fire escapes and screw—

      —what is all this fog

      in the unedited air—

      —I can’t bite through

      it to you—

      —prudence is

      a no-headed fish

      in a three-headed town—

      —sickness draws a salary / a boarding pass

      on human paper—

      —duress / duress / duress—

      —horrors tucked into corners

      of countries

      I can’t give directions to—

      —the night my friend stopped cracking

      jokes / we understood he would die—

      —I had a vision of him being better than new

      and then he was gone—

      —decades hence I kick

      an inflatable globe

      to him across the sidewalk—

      —come up for some light

      my hidden baby pigeon—

      —cajole / cajole / kaboom—

Factory

      He can say it was a painting

      He can say we were the painting

      Or that the painting wasn’t painting

      And we only happen to ourselves

      We can say we kept things running

      by creating distractions

      from the hideous truth

      of how things run

      That we were broken

      That we lingered near a broken factory

      That we had broken

      We can say that the disappointment

      of slicing into a leek

      and not finding the requisite layers

      but a thick white inedible core

      is not the disappointment

      of approaching a sleeping animal

      only to learn that it is dead

      but it does nudge one slightly

      further into despair

      We said despair

      We meant the strings of impossible

      instruments that they made

      in the factory

      That we had seen

      That were broken

      That there were different paintings

      That could be played as songs

      We had seen other things

      That we had seen

      That had come unstrung

      And СКАЧАТЬ