Two Poems

Who Made Who So help me whomever, I lost the sword by which I keep my word. I kept the sores with which I weep openly. The ointment, thick, glossy, studded with some six hundred flies. Of course I’d hurt ‘em. Wouldn’t I? The woods are crawling with me. I’m dissolving, dark slime climbing piles of damp leaves. Decay is a style of decline, not retreat. The skeletal canopy— Entropy is a unit of measurement, not an admission of defeat.   Highway to Hell All trod on hallowed sod. Come as a gunman, come as a guard unarmed. In the balm of surveillance, in the calm of a mounted camera, in cheap black pantyhose the redacted crotch, the opaque patch. In time the book broke its binding. I’m biting mine. I’m minced. I’m mice or less. The sky tonight looks nice in that dress.