Breaking of a Sleeve

 

Here the gap is

by large machines

that

end.

By the lit

moon fake,

soap butchers'

prototype

of gap,

led by

ceilings, led

by ceilings.

Aren't we

boys with young

throats?

A band of sounds,

not

the prairies'

mirrored

fur.

 

We do lack rush that

rumbled cur.

What a fill by

spent

matches.

Black theatres

that

dismantle quickly.

 

Stayed

the aborigines

laughing

weather

in

with pillow brains.

My work in

the pistol

heaps.

This way a fill of 

noose

noises

on the mouth.

 

Unravel the

brains well,

let

whole cities be

lit,

sat by

the streak,

cripple slips.

 

________________________________________

 

Matthew Johnstone is the author of Let's be close  Rope to mast, you  Old light (Blue & Yellow Dog Press, 2010) and the chapbook I'm  sorry ,  about  Baseball (2011). More poems are with GlitterPony, Fact-Simile, Robot Melon and Horseless Review. He is one half of 'Pider, a web journal out of Tennessee, Nashville.