Saturday, May 08, 2010


foam horses cover the stone hills
in eternal front yards

eyes widen in sidecar mirrors
white paint lines whipping past rubber

we are floating an ashtray between us
on a tarnished front seat
bloodied with broken crow wings
horn honking all day

making tunnels of blue tar sound
over the puddled parking lots
with a rain of delicately dropped lipsticks

we are floating an ashtray between us
full of kangaroo heart
building infant with closed soft eyes
with a bit of inner-blooming blood
in a dry fur pouch

beaches scorched to glass like tortured water
flanks touched by slow loving acid of low surf
two snouts touching in the cough
of fragile new motors


Unknown said...


I like this one. You are using titles again, and I find it suiting. J'taime, j'taime. Soft whispers.

Adelita said...

I was bored and visiting profiles...
(it's disgusting when you have nothing to do on a Sunday) and, when I read you, woah! you write really well!
pretty good

LukeBuckham said...

There's nothing disgusting about having nothing to do on a Sunday; I used to be required to go to church every morning, and it was awful. More recently, I had to work as a janitor every Sunday, which was even worse. Now I have nothing to do on Sundays, and I am quite happy. I'm glad you spent your nothing on me, thank you.