Poem 11

Hello! Hello...

This post marks a special moment for Butchered Switch. It is the first time a poem has been posted that was written entirely from a need to have something to post on Butchered Switch.blogspot.com. Is that our formal name? Anyway, this is a free write that was half written before and half written spontaneously and immediately, right after the typing of this note, in fact. We are moving in a strange real time.

Can you guess where the one section ends and the other begins?

FREE WRITE FEB. 15th 2 0 1 0


Possessed, possessive, exasperated, clenched

These are the qualities of a Grouch. And they show

shining unpleasantness
in the land of the king

From here to the sea, in no portion herein
will there be allowed
to be dens of wickedness, iniquity, oblution
to practices of atrocity.

Practices of atrocity
generate the holy-unholy (double function) madness:
a mound of mixed w/

(some or another conjectural;)

all equally unlikely, phony, artificial
gropes. Sour
grapes, kid. You must be a real bumkin talking to me like that. I'm a known killer, a blood spiller. Take you to task. But I like you. You're not drunk? You have to.


Slowing down the throb of this impossible drum
to realize it is my own heart

going into a world where noone is known to me
and I fail even, to have a thing to say,

then I see
look back on all those times of frantic babble,

as in a new light (as if cursed)

this is the spontaneous fear by which i ruin my own ghost departure,
Trying to catch hold.

If the ghost does turn
the implacability
its continence need maintain
may waver

in the face of
the atrocities
these beast men love
to play act

(i gave my boy a cookie i had baked him
i did this thing i did
you too we all do)

I guess I needn't talk about it

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