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CONCRETE MEAT PRESS
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e-chapbook 001 Michael Curran - page 5
Rotten Leaves and Pigeon Bones
Trumpets roar at the darkness, the mantelpiece my stage.
I step up to the hearth, bow and wink.
Well rehearsed, I get down on one knee. Then two.
Then I begin.
Fingers nudge the lime mortar, ash.
I get a good hold, feet and knees; elbows rubbing, buttons on my spine.
Next door, upstairs— the tv, the phone, the laughter.
Children did this.
My hands, my knees, my feet, take each twist and turn through rotten leaves and pigeon bones. I am nearly up and the sun is there I think it is there it must be and it sticks to my face.
Fly Stoned
The fly has been on the arm of the chair
a long time
and I have been watching him
a long time
He gently preens those wings
I gently inhale from a fat one
My God he has been there
a long time
He’s freaking me out
He should be out there buzzing
He takes off!
Only a short buzz it stops then a gentle tap on the newspaper
disregarded
The fly was on the arm of the chair a long time
I shall remember that.
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