Lars Palm

Seven Poems

it feels like
friday. it feels
like ridicule
. it
feels like hanging
out to dry. it
feels like fishing
lines. it feels like
a hook. it feels
like captain or
doctor. it feels like
a reverend father
& his ill begotten
reverend son. it
feels somehow like
a hammer


no palpable pulse. running
around your veins. bare

foot & shading eyes &
ears from that gaze. new

knees pulsing. elderly house
spontaneously combusting. busting

its butt to confuse the sub
urban rebels hollering

nazi cops nazi cops nazi
cops fuck off. add some

thing. apocalypse how. finish
it. if you don't have a geyser

at home. plankton of the world


where are you going with
that thing what are you
doing oh no
you don't teresa
give me that knife
like right
now before you
                              careful where you wave that
thing teresa
give me that knife
that was a good dog teresa


we showed them our
exits. we showed them
our doors saying no
entry. we showed them
our smiles void of
teeth. & later that
night we'd show our
good manners & we'd
show them our
. & later yet
we'd show them all
these things they did
not want to see. but
first we showed them
a tree dressing for a
night on the town


conflict with
the pigeons on
the balcony

snow in the take
away coffee
it's morning


i'm shocked

shocked i say by
how it started
after it maybe

had a small
drop too much i

why i tried to
fly with
out flapping my

bearded arms


slowly removing obstacles
piling them on a street corner

not sure if his enemy's enemy
is by necessity his friend

hit 'em with a sabotage
hit 'em where it hurts

birds returning from the deep south
with nice tans & loads of photos

she saved his head from biting
its own tail once again

Lars Palm blogs at mischievoice & runs ungovernable press. he has a free relationship with deadlines.

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