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click goes the gun.
 

 

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 Killer

 your hips do things
 while the bookshelf taunts 
    from the center of the room 
 like a stout little buddha, indomitable,
 bold
 where a line of little yellow 
 photographs showing men 
 you knew stuff me 
 full of ringers
 who can't give you back,
 so something is 
 dirt

 the smile lines
sultry river deep
 around your mouth,
 i wonder how you clean 
them out

and then i am 
   already moving 
murder through the rack
is the little boy brain,
   leaping from the drawers
   the killer yanks,
ear murder
    through the neck,
the real swelling goes:

 your tummy rubs for good luck,
    tomato breast flaps and alice moaning
while the wild woman
 spins under the field,
her hands all arches,
    eraser takes it off

    the hunting knife swallows,
and murder is orange
     pushing around an effigy
like underwear wings

she mentions sweat,
    how her breasts are crying,
her bones are blue,
     and the shaman's kit
comes liquid from the paddle

 i like the way you curl up, 
    the way your body moves:
 to the counter, the couch, 
the old pregnant chair,
 pleading with your mouse, biting

 the finger clicks help 
while i look off, 
 see your laundry,
their smells are leaving single file,
 will signal when it's clean.

 imagine your g-men crouched 
on sideways hands,
    sniffing behind your suicide,
a galaxy rubbing clean
and so my murder runs:
 
the mission burns
as shackled shrinking chorus girls go
aye
aye
aye

i cut holes in this picture
 so you can fit
 
blinking slows and sleep sets in,
 you sway and pan for a favorite verse 
     with fingers on the spine,
 coloured rocks around your neck 
 flash of catch the 
last breath, there,
  the stare i know now
the light and go,
  now you catstring or bone 
     to me,
 with your 

 real 

   white 


 shirt


Copyright 1997 Scotch Wichmann, All Rights Reserved.
Published in Love and War: Eleven Poems (2003) and RealPoetik (1997).
Reprinted with permission. On the web: www.scotchwichmann.com