snail in the rat trap

waited by the false ringing of some aluminum ears
played trombone with feet of porcelain
made tongue stroke many glasses
half asses played with little hand of clock
clicked back with chin straps and softening voices
believing was a fantasy meant
and a precious
looked

arriving in pickup truck black
bed emptied bottles, vacant memories
asking to be holy, as the white fly flits by right nostril
do I breathe like a rhinoceros
and you question me with words unanswered

how quaint it is to lie in this dim august light
how strange it is to pluck your selfish quaint moral
should I have not told a honey blossom lie
would a barbed wire hand adjunct pleasantly

she waves tears like molten fingers
rake my grave down by the lake
and place the ocean as some false sacrilege at sodden feet
words look like ketchup up a swollen asshole

warnings rave as steel fences beside punk police forces
dressed up nineties child feigning eighties indulgence in
a overindulgent sanctioned Americana landslide
I slide tongue deep up your inner thigh
passing curtain sheet willow tree
waving wet finger at the blower standing simple
clocking hours like a significant crime
raise flags with weeping shackled mourners
placating performers wait for the queen
yet the king stands hearty with a silver staff
a lie with a mirror for doubled eyes


matthew wedlock (Taunton, MA, 1984)