Gustave Moreau, “Orpheus at the Tomb of Eurydice”

THE DESERT SAYS the father’s dead it’s a hole we’re standing on, a grain of death, the grain of His death white in the Son praised white the only time. Remembering money is the medicine the judge said others were to take, a dead brother slayne in stammering name of my father’s dark kentucky I made, the tally thrown down to create.


Did you know memory is the hole I left when I exited below, and there was a floor? Suddenly there was a floor. I make my present a place and it digs and I call it an elevator. I make my life a spot where everybody wants to


whoops the symbol made made a door

with his big bad speare


and his dumb wall that bounces


: : : : :


FIGURE ONE shows the first name. Some kind of bullet, anxious & drunk. A sugar ashamed of itself like a dog worries it’s a slave. Which is to say that happened. That was a thing. Lying that I was an actor. That I wasn’t once in prison for having a golden dick, stuck on an isle alone with a remote control. That day is gone. In order move one must separate and destroy for someone else’s food, as the jester invents the existence of oil.


The concept of death is its determination.

It says, Use me, I who believe I am worthless.

Tell me to speak interruption.


: : : : :


I slit the old man’s throat and his time pours into my pig.


We two baptized in the bath.


: : : : :


Once atop a planet,

in one of its sub-basements,

a rat sobs his heart to the floor of its whale.


It tells itself a story no one can conquer:


One day camping in the plague, Joseph Merrick was doing his rounds as Doctor. Dressed as a horrible white, anthropomorphic bird, none of the dead were horrified. He walked around telling everyone to be careful, piling his cart with bodies no one wanted anymore.


I used to shovel out stables, so I know about that.


: : : : :


I saved all the plastic rings from the six-packs I drank with my friends. There were hundreds. I brought them to the stone and I buried them.


Soon they will be our trilobyte.


: : : : :


As I am dragged into the hole by what lives in the wall the pet cactus begins to shake. Tarantulas crawl out from inside. I thought they’d never leave. I thought the movie wouldn’t end. I don’t know why I made it.


: : : : :


the other being

boy meets girl


I could be indignant

or like home

we obey ourselves


in other words

I was also helped


: : : : :


The whale wasn’t ‘abducted’ by aliens so much as it was taken up thru a hole in the sky. If you’re worried about that, ask yourself:


Who ever heard of a disgraced whale?


: : : : :



the crow’s chest labored with the weight of its leech
























GARETT STRICKLAND is the editor of .PLINTH., ICHNOS, and other publications of the Unwin-Dunraven Literary Ecclesia.

He is the author of a long-poem, WHOA DONT CARE (Jerkpoet, 2015), and UNGULA (forthcoming from Solar▲Luxuriance). He’s an ordealist.