Mark DeCarteret


detective bonding

more damp purposes
reconstituting modness

know through your mouths
this feeble grappling

warrants w/ brief, glorious captions
hero talk winding up the dicks

an arrangement of dis-chord, sinewy revelry
steeped in peroxide, pocketed garnishes

your own private snuggle
flushed blank by union

& similar slick shots
stretching dirges into telegrams

higher too the scaffolded equinox
brandishes a heavenly fifth

into seasons of clout
this gauzed penitentiary


last up

deserted silo
harangued by the sun
though the head’s
long gone soft
w/more gods
than the sky knows
what to do with

once his hands
had rummaged
through the world’s
darkest quarters
now they peel back
some wrap
on some food
a black cat leaving
more fits of dust
on the delivery truck’s hood

a red arrow
only on half the time
more this questionable light
just off in the distance
he’s stopped moving
his mouth long enough
for the world to know
he hasn’t any answers



the page never over
turned relinquished thus
this predicament again:
what was said's squashed
refingered into slumber &
stuck into role-playing figures:
what was thought dumb
sensation mandatory ex-curses
& what we'd mean's more
enlightenment be long
after remembering no thing
not hinging on process this
recovery even worse rehearsed
ravaging thus not necessarily
the cages themselves that
what used to be us somehow
spaced somewhat watched but
now lumbering unfounded



so little of what
he’s saying
even registers

the distant eyed
glasses and smoke—
I can see

(what it is you are
saying) how our blessings
aren’t much more

than dry spells
folded up into perfect white


the once untamable season

the hallway blocked w/suspicious boxes
no longer the standard remiss
the audible range of the snowmobile
stresses the blurt of shaggy sirens
oh helper so further in terms of God farther
the verdigris palm reconstructed, held alive
by a clock’s ruse & the seminally converted
what could be meant by all these indexes?
the locked heart speaks of only forever


ex-static breath

the muffled resident resides in self-conscious
his punctured hands private universes
wreathed in soiled angelness
carefully pleading w/every eye
locked in drinking postures, security
until under the gnarled door of absence
rapture's last month can be slid