from Fiend Folio


Chris McCreary

Albatross
 
Books
in my jaws,
I talk.
 
I rail
at my nightingale
 
in plain
song
 
sung wrong. My frown
 
aches adder
from eel, bends sinister
all sparks at will.
 
The night falls,
the falcon
 
alights,
tosses the tangled entrails
 
at the base of my bed.
 
 
 
 
Botched Chupacabra
 
I.
 
Corners
& quick the boards
 
over the doors.
A thin bit of cotton
 
dissolves & hope
croaks over my gums.
 
Torn verbs. Turpentine.
The same old starch
 
sewn over every orifice,
the tight smile
 
pulled tighter
by hidden strings. Taut,
 
tauter this tinkering
until fit to tear.
 
 
II.
 
Dripping water dropped
to rumor
 
& sticky hearts
stuck to the
 
wall.
You stew
 
in stagnant air
& when the hordes move
 
to drain your humours,
their antlers gore
 
as a sort of surge
& recur. &
 
recur. &
recur.
 
 
 
 
Disinvited
 
The romance of
 
shipwreck &
 
inevitable an eighth day's
fever, some
 
Stratego mixed
w/ bits of necromancy
 
& so this mess
you've left,
 
i.e., attachment
to one's captor, e.g.,
 
one pissed-off Tinkerbell,
or, c.f.,
 
another day of nickels,
the countless fallen
 
robins, et
cetera. Cannonball,
 
the boy calls, & then he leaps
overboard.
 
 
 
 
Ethan Frome Goes
 
Can you float these fleetings,
landscapes
 
            painted in haste.
I tried to rise. I rose
 
toward the light. I grew
confused. I was among the buzzing
 
            & the fireflies.
With screens as partitions,
 
you can pretend you don't hear
the screams. Please come closer
 
            to the brush strokes
& sense something momentous,
 
tasting the pollen & overtaken
by the sneeze.