


			Rob Holloway

			SPUN HOME PICNIC ON CROW STORE

			SPUN HOME Water is always first a bullet, a pointed gun that loves a market it swells lips inside a cage halfway in I hold a rope to the ends of your fingers quips Pete, “The territory is squat,” a ladder by any other rung. Scars grow back, so relax I use my friend for a cough box but who beat your son on the grass? The martinis are smelling of pork. A spike in a barrel of skin’s for ease of breathing. ■ PICNIC ON I wondered how much like butter this ghost of an effort to be great would appear on Alphabetical Avenue eating only orange pigs spun into a glass picture by a dear little machine these black yellow spitting days. The horsehair turning resigns itself to rust in the house of the engine heavy as mud more spinal than a staircase O cloth come replace a pride in flight with a more coral, no, pumice tone ■ CROW STORE As when a relaxing mechanic clings fast to water’s lick at the thought of a penitentiary spigot so charcoal waves dip oil in crows sat concretizing on a tree staring sadly back at me between incompleteness and what’s lost by your shifting sunlight’s box of metal layers, its feather doors in sight of ochre’s smell opening on a second son in a funny kind of nuclear heap, lately ‘coxcombed by the Reds’ now ‘neighbourly’ in socks playing truant with an inconvenient tooth (the light appearing at the end of the tunnel he hopes is not his candleabra). Lancing with beak tips protruding from your masks the fruit found bunching in the corners of this bruise, more a rattle than a mote the kind an ageing pump blowing elipsoidal air under regulation owls‘ll bust on breaking, a river’s banks’ll snap ’ll what? Vermilion dye it deeper than ever hands subdue? ‘ll the agricultural merit of the patience of my horse and its taste for Venice paper last just until that monkey skeleton talking hotly back at me becomes the lawn o’er thy fair pap bores holes so deep no bee inside’ll trade not their wings for stings un stated, leaving dogs and their writers too down on their luck to nail the army down to the steam that’s belching from their leaves?


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