Eric Keenaghan

smashed to bits

 

move the music a little closer further from mechanism's crunch an interference of words to see all upon paper stapled & fixed each man kills the thing heloves each man kills the thing heloves da da da la da da da & paper-shattered illusions words set to music spaced in these dreary predawn amniocenteses of postmenstrual nights stapled unlike a wound unhealed binding a firmament w/ black suns & hollow men garish buttons for your tender skies under which she tells of the weave screaming papyrically (only so i or all can hear) & only recalled be thoseseen cast by my feet blocks back, or slipping out of a bag these tuzzv black cats flat sans legs , or perhaps yanked out uprooted by men's aching menacing hands these weaves, not mine less artificial than pubic posted as "real" & of penelope braiding undoing weaving ininterminable chapped heels l,a da da da da the ruse marlene sings forced into compromising positions reprimanding those selling her vagina on a stand	arcing syncopated tunes stretching but my inner sadness to reveal the multiform of one word wound accessed by eachman to an exclusion : we've learned little by the hairs little hairs lining crease chicken scratch, mylines fair parallel lines contracting inwards w/ each colonic squeeze the mechanism clickers, setter putting in the fina blow on the fold meta margin dotted filaments gloving his own soothsayer's page a furry paw in sootytouch with a munching mechanism & still i wonder about this unrest, sparsely defined, filling so little space but a bit closer to mine but still apart lada da dada , or perhaps yanked out uprooted wondering about the hand doing the setting (will it be a sun quenched?) forcing the mechanism (why can only itonly use teeth?) pushing forth click toward one guttural stop (when will it me glut?) the hand of each man lined with tiny hairs palm downwards thrusting over downwards ever down over repetition tendon creaking clattering joint clicking in the digit central careening down	my throat stopping at the hairs under knuckle, clicking come clicking home clicking come home a joint peddling hairylines countering your own straightening out your weaves casting them at my feet in grotesquerie of mechaniste each man kills but i'm not sure how stoppage weak over come how come this thing rings hollow hoping one swipe tongue out eliminates one hair less -- thatmight mar your page lapping over lapping a hair along a new crevice.stop. the thing he loves each man kills each man & the fascist croons I fall in love for a moment when i lick dandruff from his fingers salting staples in his wounds la dada

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Eric Keenaghan's poetry has also been published in ixnay, and he is now working on material for a translation of luis cernuda's poetry. Eric's doctoral work is focused on international modernism; his essay on C.L.R. James appeared in the Fall 1998 issue of Schuylkill.

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