Sean Brendan-Brown



     & jargon the new music

of this esurient life, trolling

my skin for a place touch

doesnít sicken; the Spaniard


     says donít call him that

drunk sounds too much

like bastard.  I said bishounen,

thatís Japanese for pretty boy.


     He grins, slapping about

a butterfly knife, slashing

a moth hen we drink some

more.  Iím against bleeding,


     the execration of enemies

too far out to see:

the peaceable times are past,

ours is a stelliferous


     era dominated by stars

and star-gazers.  Hate modifies

the zenith, transmogrifies

the blood cyan, yellow, magenta;


     God is a trampy grandfather

clock full of mice & click beetlesó

gulps dandelion wine, tattoos his ankle

the above is not really me.

Copyright © 2003 Sean Brendan-Brown.  All Rights Reserved.

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