Jonathan Duckworth
Mouth
A rabbit’s carcass, gutted
in a ravine, all of it moving,
livid dark flesh of flies. A hand
of insect noise arises,
envelopes me—
horseflies, bluebottles,
all the droning ministers
of the parliament calliphoridae.
Past a certain density of sound,
even thoughts become soluble.
Standing in the swirl of wings,
I know I’ve found the mouth
of the world & every word
it knows comes
direct from the gloss of anger.
Haibun of My Body
The material that makes my body is nothing like stardust. My body is a river that feeds a thousand swamps. A tiny sun orbits the idea of itself in the hollow of my stomach. My fingers are pontoons skimming an ocean of sound & breath. My elbows are bridges no one notices until they break. My penis is a retractable banner that sometimes flaps but usually flags. My eyes are not windows or mirrors to anything but cathode ray screens running games of Pong with my pupils. My mouth is the cave where the tiger self- immolated, burnt alive by the fire of his own stripes.
My body is
every bit like the universe:
half happening, half
empty space