Cleaves Number 3, 2010.
Edited by Matthew Hall and Harry J. Goodwin
In early survey lines about the poète maudits, the poète maudits
swung their Sandman Panelvan off the dust suppressant and
took the shuddering gulch, completely fucking their suspension
so that even before stock-route vowels, the poète maudits broke
down to their hipbones in sky & ate salt straight from the sunhead.
After dry hours split with nerve they abandoned their vehicle
those poète maudits are walking in the dead river’s crockery
waving their umlauts, for a plane or any kind of eye for your eye
While days away you circle up over the chassis, wondering whose
foreign mouths have left this poem out here, to rust and carrion?