Dinner Hatchet

Matthew Wedlock

            I am on the threshold of feeling










Let’s start with the ego. or perhaps crystal {you choose}           

            I offer myself what remains in the fridge - a stick of salted butter
                                    {this does not include condiments}

there is warmth & fat & the ceiling drum of this heart protests
            kick, trump, kick thrump, 
                        this is when I notice the autocorrect has slipstreamed phallic already

              {leave it}

    later; not much though - there is sub echo larynx crafting defense mechanism’s against the ether
                        I open my eye
                                    the right one
                                                & hope for a synonym

or a mantra, but that drum is a windmill or a highway or a friend reading german in mil high cold with fingers wrapped in polyurethane by a church or a library or a press or a bar in a pub with ice that is not melted but
                                          see also:
                                                here is the book you will never read                       

                        here is the clickbait you have been looking for



|\}{ the new/  cube house rune in the span between the red book &   ants may bite the crone again
            this year














I bear my mother in snow
  flakes in
honey in mustard in
                                    leg of lamb
mother , I am 32 sprinting
            round the tight oval of retirees, college ephedrine & black magic cell phone turnstiles
                            to Puisque belle dame m’eime
& at the second bend I am 17 cutting locomotive until throwing up
            & you should stop me here
because outside of the rosemary
            I cannot
because I never existed
            {or copout}
because I  ate from the letter’s you could not give away
                        I tried not to be the glue
            & it ate me.
                        I asked for everything that melted and it’s ether

I wish he could unmeet you
            until the turn sheen’s saline





















                                                                        Baba Yaga, take the lampblack to my heart
                                                                        you say - higher mind - in conversation
                                                                        our lips wet with chestnut soup & alcohol 

                                                `                       this is the territory of our relations:
                                                                        often as an ocean beyond first steps
                                                                        impenetrable, but if strained & soured
                                                                        I will participate

                                                            this is sometimes a source of great anxiety
the fire falls we wash our face with what remains of the beeswax & borax {prep the wrist with linseed oil} & insert the 8 pins into the shock wave of your partner in the sand dune
                                                            {you the crone, ride your star through the oak rind &
                                                silhouette between rings & you cast our animal fur in resin for intimate portrait sessions with the talking heads - abandoned for carapace shed or what I mean
                                    to say is liberation, with conjuration
                                    I found my body, it was an honor,
                                                 & took a long time
                                                            a stasis of cobweb damp light pulled string halogen interlude cocaine subterfuge, or      what is rendered in the realm where all is fetishized

                                                            Baba Yaga, how do I read between myself in a black bikini
                                                                        and nude in clawfoot bathtub with typewriter clasp
                                                casuistic to leg while sharing the remnants of a receipt paper blunt with a genocide welcome mat swills or swivels the neon shower head soma for what I am is duck confit in the cigarette of your grandmother’s mouth in bed - a plunging ; my mouth makes old words                    {take dopamine for example}
                                    & gives them an award, full
tufts of hair, this is the universal spell
            but only after our clothes are off

                                    your hair raises when the song is pressure
            your music is a mirror or
                                                hair left in lockets to warm
the boundaries in catharsis of sanctums ]           

                             a sum of compassion in sprained ankles, orgasms, *& wishbones                                                                          


    the poison is back in my mouth, I will awaken the knives counting backwards in which circulation is shovel or grease for which now, for you I will hallucinate.

                        I sing these words to the one with a pendulum denied.
                        I sing these words to the one with the rosary near his beard of yeast
                        I sing these words with the one who asks if the lighting is our hungry god.
                        I sing these words as a window into the basement of all the passing cars I mistrust in  a given year.




{                                                          {                                                          {





In my first semester at community college, I took a Death and Dying class, in which we had a field trip to a cemetery. The undertaker brought us to where the formaldehyde makes a bride between world’s for those bent on one final cabinet to place things. He then, with less than five downward steps, brought us to a stainless steel door. The question was asked quick and without answer, and so he answered for us. The rest is a secret of mine.  
















you have died and the tree is growing beside
 you are not letters ‘    to send in half scripts of my own hand
       so I
   wait for the pattern to sink with doubt

     if I  could  I would be a finger on your left hand
        the sun,  which with a full moon above you sing to
and with a shift of night,
   a drop D  tuning
you cut  {askew]

                         :in the closet when all of the years shrink and expand upon lips in:


the house becomes spiders in the first fire where ice splits thumbs in roof genocide slipped belly comment post wet with weird old friends yelling picture presents under in root canal tootsie roll fissure picture hook

  or in semi colons  a % of the proceed in shame washed in raspberry cream ; \ gullets filled with anise liquor for nuclear winter

     or the soft shaving of dog’s paw before summer blacktop

or the inside of  thigh west of a ley line 
                        there is no weather system
                        or death in which we lie
          the point is illustrated algorithm, a tongue comforted cyst of
            crystals, whisking dying uncles from cold ham into cold sister car
into the house of those who have made little with nothing -        our body shakes]\\

            {light  l    a ng   mage    run   touch   }

daughter I am weak .  I wish you. an empathy tree      

                                    a forever of two step where you & partner switch who leads