: Untitled :
an excerpt by Vanessa Place
The one found in the depthless pitterpat of an other‘s ayes.
Not corporeal enuff?
Missing the whizz-bang of the better art?
The jigjig and the upchuck, the jogjog and the fuckup, the lick and
tickle, the pricked thornbed, the 6ll crossnail, the rude red raw
Appels and aranches, sez too.
Appals and equipages, sez mo I, for we‘re jest country folke here,
our bidness quiddious as quarter-1/4 plots, pyrexic as a short in the dark, on
the 1/2 hr.
We’ll end as we begun, perfumed with the mung-scent of our mortality
Im, you mean. Fish-scent, you mean. You mean.
Not fish nor fowl, but farm =n field, for you‘re wishing for things, wings,
I mean, again, but we‘re on the hoof, dovecoot, gambreled and
Mother will not die gracefully.
She dies. Isn‘t that grace enough?