Global Voices Radio Spoken Word Lab American Sentences
American Sentences
Organic Poetry
ExquisiteVictoria Reunion Corpses

ExquisiteVictorian Reunion Corpses

November, 2008




It’s been raining for days

drizzle it like virgin olive oil over the leaves

but under every

careful footstep stepping

it’s the looking over his shoulder that

brings him the last sausage

burns half way up the hill

just above the window of our deep desire.



In the heebie-jeebie dust of a worn remark

fuzz green fuzzy head

listen to me listen to me you freak

it will work better after a 10 o’clock blueberry breakfast but

w/o the champagne George wanted.

He forges $100 bills in the basement

the smell permeates

into the gaping mouth of her mother.



My feet change colours

tuesday you pass the plate of

remorse while I eat chicken

and dumplings bobbed in hot oil

the aroma grasping memory and teasing

a flare of nostrils hover over apples, smell jasmine

because the coffee was cold and the dog

limped into the oblivious screen.




Twisted in the butter dish

speculates of ocean life

illegally in the way of stones

on a highway curving into sunset

eye blinded by hot oil spitting

off the heat before it burned or

turned into grist for Ashberry-

inspired the copy-cat murders, blood

seeping across the Mid-West.




She was obsessed with painting

everything grey under my aging hairline

reminds me of a hospital ward

so many went grey overnight in shock

from seeing one can of hair spray

under her skirt, where small

creatures of mourning and

mercy and grace to all

sinners even the donkey braying.



I carry the tune around

like haggis postcards in the

morning. In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower

Lorraine blustered, spat,

said “Give me your hip,

let me, no, insist that I

turn around, spin the dial and

lift one foot and put it down.”



Blueberry pancakes are burning,

we fell into it—

for one minute of bliss

the constable with the huge

pectorals, one finger on the

trigger, then all hell broke loose.

I screamed, “Don’t touch it

or I’ll sick that Jesus donkey on you!”



George’s face looks like a crumpled

sheet, not the way mother used to fold them,

wrinkled from within

for pears and peaches, apples

and plums, resplendent in the

wooden bowl and china plates painted

red splattered the walk, maples

dropping stones on puddles.


George Bowering, Kim Clark, Linda Crosfield, Rhonda Ganz, Pat Smekal, Leslie McBain, Paul Nelson, Lenora Smalley.