The Grave On The Wall
by Brandon Shimoda

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Grandfather touched the eye of the man who killed his fathers
on the outer flags of festival mountain. The touch
was the texture of genuine friendship. A tiger slipping across a frozen pond
blackened torso rolled in rice and belts of seaweed. The sweating cube of a failing machine

Grandmother felt it in her legs while watching a man getting pummeled to death
on television. A small animal in an accommodating field of rice
delimited by rows of radiated feet, Fat in shadow, Lapping the light on a new port
ambassadors fumbling with a casket of poems to swab the colony of a glowing infection

Grandfather referred to himself as having been touched by an order of fathers
the city looked like a diamond ring on a flattened finger, For a cracked hand blessed
with appropriate slowness, There is no feeling, There is only living through
distended limbs in the scheme of he is thinking of slitting open then napping

Grandmother wilts. Small animals hemorrhage from split heads and improve
grandfather binds the feet of the neglected strewn across the distorted angles of the city
pulls his pants down to reveal live coals left by the vigor of the tourniquet
adores nothing but the future as in nothing. Grandmother is moving along the wall

Stretching her tortures over the windows. Points to a parachute through the glass. There are innumerable occasions to feel genuine friendship with the objects that fall balletically from the clouds before understanding they are merely presaging the end of that joy and advancing the destruction of everything else, That is, Touched through the back of his head






The Grave On The Wall


a lady is masturbating
on the road
to the peopled river
twenty paces from where the river is put upon
her fingers are small
the kinds of fingers that can feel
what other kinds feel
nothing

O

to be bitten by a bombardier
to be bitten by a gentle bombardier
clit
is long-term

to bite the mammal from the nest
of calcium frozen to the wall
chanting the particles out of joy
she feels the joy within
the wall
bitten by modest artillery
the mammal wants
to bite
in response
not flinch for gross engorgement

straw children
flash extremist monographs against
the wall
to see
how such a well-dressed threat might stick
at rest I can feel the joy behind me

O

a lady is masturbating
with an eagle on her shoulder
the eagle is proud
dapper gut sparkling the open air
bucking with the planetary hood of a cherry on death watch

a kestrel a hawk and two eagles
sit on the lady’s shoulders
burgers on their heads
birds of instant fever I know I love her
whichever way love can be levered
across the mattress and the sand
air! air! here comes the air!
black! black! a lady
with a trunk full of children tumbling
open

O

a lady is masturbating
like it is all bean cakes
she brought bean cakes into the rice paddy
for the eyeless musician
to get a
head
head start

she would do anything for a fellow musician
really wash the beard off
reduce the box to flattened bark
common breathing
pushing back
some people say jesus
yes some
sitting and pushing their intestines back in

O

she cannot tell a man
who is female
with breasts
is not a woman
she and her wife will be saved
entertained in the crawling water

from a circle of hair on the knuckle of her finger
falls (1)
a cube of sugar
(2) an iron filling in the shape of a baby
and (3) a fairy. I trust you fully
to carry us through
the advent and chapters of a radiant harm
the widening of your mouth in epilogue
the ennobling of your tongue in index
and the treading of your eyes at the vaporizing
bib
and wing

the circle of hair is a single strand
unwound it will stiffen gold into a stalk
with less and less time, Sit on my hand
feel it finalize itself in the sauce of a small, Falling apple





The Grave On The Wall

“where nothing is ever a thought grows supreme”

it may be that I
am confusing stoic stacks of wood
for mounded boys
and bold, And reading books
nakedly in the unchaperoned woods
hungrily as could adolescent voices eat themselves
in time
reading the same rare sentence
over and through the measured phone
of progress
ringing wait
ringing ringing can you
come
but wait
and hand me the meningitis
from the cradle of that flickering thing
vital breasts of original pulse
and charity are a place, Rather
edible garments refusing bad faith of the future

civilians sweep streamers of white phosphorus
beyond the banquet of single-holed civilians
crowding a fossilized mall
backlit by antiquity
for something to eat
a single noodle thirty feet long
wraps around my neck with quality
like a good time rinsed out of a pond never tasted good
nor foul beyond holy indentures

my leg is also an option
broken with the purse of sweet and sour
sauce, Why not
eat on the cheap

bloated stomachs in compact orchestrations
unfold ceaselessly, While books
brought into a courtyard
partner for the shifting mirror of sky
made to labor principally for what will eventually be stolen
adopt the generous assassin of each sentence
to raise express milk
the ink of the wound
to let live
and to answer is vulnerable