White peach with salt,
Pepper and vinegar
Prepared by our
Physicalist (via
The fog hammered
Budapest of the west)
Is to be taken like
Forma’s newest
Piece for flute and
Piano, devoured
Here with scraps
Of synth and typology,
Like pomegranate
Seeds and long red
Gloves, like this
Election and that
Family reunion, a
Broken curtain rod
Fixed, interactions
With electrician slash
Hooligan, tofu and
Broccoli, inabilities
To talk about race
On dull and refined
Uncloudy days,
Margin walkers
Gone hunting and
Bringing nothing
At all home, nothing
More to say about
This enormous
Foreign room.

Tagged ,


  1. sanberdooboy says:

    the poem describes how everything’s screwed up. even the delicate flavor of the white peach is made bitter and harsh. the music is messed up, and on it goes until the stasis of “This enormous/ Foreign room.” for me it describes what is happening in this country “like this/ Election.” seen through observant eyes.


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