All the vivre that gets ordered / stomach bound /
they open and serve like French wine . cuisine carve
knives on bone chip strop.
Humble or hubris, spectacle
Over! bowel shafties crank . prime you who? shipping.
We did good once so . much they care / the sharp
on ceremony fabric, sword / until breath passage tacks
the frack you ! think you fingering.
Worms turn sites for quiet back stage . barb web
wipes for arse 'gnominy | no place to haul ? in phone cell
light visitants under cover show.
While sambas eat . rump meditates / pass rabbit
hole Enter keys for fat lady friends / faith grind rails
unlock thighs sigh . tired unburdening.
Well down the tubes . they wait, orifice clerks point
checking applications : our just not funny tumors; how in
a sink you’re scrubbed . too old . to be game measured
for stiff matters.
Uncalled for, that cone of voice
Sir/Madam, we’re not children told \ Yes, you \ stay
in the car, don’t try that again. Oh, my stars.
– W.W.
QAT
(As far as either recalls having had a
Life, since they both feel as if they have lived more
Lives than cats in traffic or actors on stage).
One forgot that souls in our age have no souls,
Only minds which have been dissolved in a lab
Into the product of acids in the brain.
*HEARING Madame Brickolage spinning such merde, Qat keeps
Her eyes glazed under their heavily painted
Lids and her eyebrows raised ever so slightly
But set as though they too are fictions of ink.
(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 