from Fiend Folio

Chris McCreary

in my jaws,
I talk.
I rail
at my nightingale
in plain
sung wrong. My frown
aches adder
from eel, bends sinister
all sparks at will.
The night falls,
the falcon
tosses the tangled entrails
at the base of my bed.
Botched Chupacabra
& 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.
Dripping water dropped
to rumor
& sticky hearts
stuck to the
You stew
in stagnant air
& when the hordes move
to drain your humours,
their antlers gore
as a sort of surge
& recur. &
recur. &
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
Ethan Frome Goes
Can you float these fleetings,
            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.