Vicious
The day is inside a jam jar.
The air is treacle
it bungs and clogs lungs
in black tar. A haunted hawk
halts, fat feathers gummed
in the soaring slot as if
by Exxon-Valdez crude.
The air is treacle
it bungs and clogs lungs
in black tar. A haunted hawk
halts, fat feathers gummed
in the soaring slot as if
by Exxon-Valdez crude.
Below, human sun basters
stew. A boutique hotel’s
brown brick and brunches
in aspic. Melting mouths suck
never chew. Lava steams up
car windows without love
or lust. On gossamer skin
boils blister and blisters
boil. The world dozes,
one leg dangling
from its duvet.
Adrian Harte is Irish but has lived in Switzerland for 20 years. He has
been published in the Peregrine Journal, Vita Poetica, Embryo Concepts
Zine, A New Ulster, Awakenings, Roi Fainéant Press, and Abridged. He has
also written Small Victories: The True Story of Faith No More (Jawbone Press).
Beaver Magazine 