Eddie Watkins

Compost Pile


This tomb is a recipe, nerve bible of slime,
delving midget that sprouts a giant's eye.
It is a lime noise. And green splurges on remains,
as a choice tigress vaults our weeping
to jack a train implicated in Apollo's death.
Hewn starfish penalize the amber pond,
pond nurturing necrophiliac ferns,
and declare hashish a leonine mobile
symbiotically twinned to crowds in oblivion.
Crowds pasted by the buttery shavings
of an ornery star. Hair of star
suffusing blending mass. As lovers pass
in dream strolls, purple lowers the lid
to lift up a polished squirm. And buildings peel.
A tremendous kite drops freckled isotopes
to fry in the sun, spooning out moon decimals
fertilizing the autochthonic paper.
Late evening enters ohms to read,
in its serpent fortune iconography,
the final gutturals of multiplied ink.
Grit under pressure becomes visionary cartoon,
drawing down its full spectrum of pens
to pin up the Nile, tide of hermetic remarks
ibis art preserved in apple rot. The hairy emergence,
flanked by twining poles, summons an eclipse,
and the morning train compresses into deadly rush.
Solar forehead slides in and out of midnight's pelt.
As rugged guppies sift for turquoise remains,
worms shovel halls with subversive nipples
in steady streams of voluptuous interruption,
exquisite winds out of infused fetor,
electrical flickers in sinew's mineral membrane
stratifying the compost of magical memory.
 

Body of Thought

Legend of the Louse

Virgin Cocktail

© by Eddie Watkins

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