lyric in which the only direct object is the body
We slices tree like they saddest cake,
breaks toothpick to makes smaller
toothpicks; breaks egg to makes shells.
Puts a cross in they dome, I say. I tells you, there,
in all earnest: I donst know want so I makes this promise:
I will stab yr heart to splinter.
Hear they knothole wind
cog ups they trees all night long;
chatters chatter metal. Today,
to everyone who ask you they time
just say it with stare; or here,
plain: snubs them to show what's what.
We practices desire and affectation like they smug marble busts;
they bucket butted princes of industry,
of war, who clutter up they park and office alike
with their stiff limbs and hollow pupils to help us feels seen.
They statue looks polished as sin.
Everyday at three its all rain and they thunder,
is all prisoned up in bone and that's what they calls protected;
but they thunder,
it whisper sweet softs, you think woods
crack down bone no, ain't no heart ever split
like kindling. Listen to my balloonsong.
My collapsed whine stretched unimaginably.
This voice that gost fractured, straights up the throat.
lyric in which someone who is not us addresses god after being released from lockup
In all they world no one good for nothing. Chisel black
into they smile, mad into the hand. We carves breath
into each moltwork inch; dress stone to slave.
Lord O' pitch rock like woo and we all
waits for they to hit. But this about we you, you royal:
you songs up prayer to keep yr head straight and you
hast possess that little thing. You,
when you ever shows kindness without expectation?
Kindness a vice, kindness
clamp yr heart out yr plaster ribs and wench. Lord O' donst talk anymore
save he go please don't interpret me
while I'm talking and just so you know, the phone is ringing.
Maybe he mean interrupt
but they too much new to not calls yrself an expert of something.
We all leads spiritual. We all whispers life
until we can marionette anyany.
Look, I even gost they garden on string. But we sidetracked they point.
Oh. Yes. The point is, you are a mess.
lyric in which we ferment brandy in a hole you dug in the back acre
Who foist whats toward here. We going cripples you
for yr appetites. They canvas, they moon with pail
same as you
drapes sick on skin: we shirrs boredom
clever as sweatpants as sweet as directional such as
adds sugar and spit to taste
then glut. In they rooms a model of the concept of room;
I say we slit they bells until
no knell, no way, no. You could break the arm off, too.
Give me they fat woman
doing a puzzle of kittens anyday; we takes her over all them
cocky stars winking down at us
and him bald lazy moon.
Would you like a drink sir?
We donst take no interests
in they negative so serves it up. I gost everywhere to be.
Jamison Crabtree is not actually telling the truth, but he's not necessarily lying either. He lives in a car or a tent or a fancy mansion or some other sort of place. His work appears or is forthcoming in LIT, No Tell Motel, Anti-, Poor Claudia, Terrain.org, Best New Poets 2009, and many other wonderful/beautiful places.