A torchon after Indigo Weller
Some need some Body
or more to ape sweat
on some site. Bloody
purl or dirty spit
hocked up for to show
who gets eaten. Rig
Body up. Bough bow
to breeze a lazed jig
and sway to grig’s good
fiddling. Pine-deep
dusk, a spot where stood
Body. Thus they clap
—
when I mount banc’, jig
up the lectern. Bow
to say, “it’s all good,”
we, gathered, withstood
the bends of dives deep
er, darker. They clap
as I get down. Sweat
highlights my body,
how meats dyed bloody
look fresher for show
ing, I got deep, spit
out my mouth, a rig
—
id red rind. Bloody
melon. Ha! No sweat!
Joking! Nobody
knows the trouble. Rig
full o’ Deus. “Sho
gwine fix dis mess.” Spit
in tragedy’s good
eye! “This one’s called …” Jig
ger gogglers then bow
housefully. They clap.
“… be misundeeeerstoooood!”
Hang notes high or deep,
—
make my tongue a bow—
what’s the gift?! My good
song vox? The gift?!?! Jig
gle nickels from deep
down my craw. They clap.
I’se so jolly! Stood
on that bank. Body
picked over, blood E
rato! Braxton’s sweat
y brow syndrome®, spit
out a sax bell wring
a negrocious show
—
of feels. Fa show, sweat
equals work. Bloody
inkpot of Body,
I stay nib dipped, show
never run dry! Rig
orously, I spit
out stressed feet. Lines jig!
Ha ha ha ha!!!! Good
one [that/I] is, bow
deep but not out. Stood,
shining, dim. They clap,
waves slapping hulls. Deep
—
don’t mean sunken; good’s
not yummy, right?! Bow,
blanched with foam, jig-jigs.
“This one’s called …”—they clap—
“‘_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _barrow.’ So much dep
ends / upon / dead _ _ _ _ _ _ _” Stood,
I on that bloody
rise of sweet Body;
there you is, too. Sweat
it, let’s. They clap—“Rig
ht?” some ask, post. Spit
tle-lipped: I said: “Sho.”
