Flower Head

Flower Head
(Noon)
Nathaniel S. Rounds

ISBN: 978-1-927593-39-4
©2014 Nathaniel S. Rounds
Published by Fowlpox Press

Flower Head (Noon)
Nathaniel S. Rounds

Flower Head (Noon)
On a cathode ray tube TV
Pop star sings with gravel-lined throat
Ad hoc lyrics stab and then
Bleeds the listener
Who awakens without painful memories
And yet recollecting the flesh
Of a warm, big fish
*
We feel sorrow regarding prior conflicts
Slick as whetstone
Deaf to afterbirth of faux- gourmet-
Pork-as-propaganda
*
The alchemist laughs
Then collapses, castrating himself in rainfall
Waiting for help while dreading night’s arrival
And the promised alleviation
Of the mysterious design of his own psyche
Relinquishing feathers
Of starlings in flames of gold and orange
And in this oasis in a glade
We listen, quiet, still
The fiery birds fleeting, flying
To jungle drums
Alerting those waiting
In war paint

Trouble Light
I stood down on side of the hill, with stolen crutches
Begging for change
I wanted your attention, a night
Out of the shelters for the destitute
And nameless
I was digging deep for some precious scenery
But that tall, gaunt, girl
Gillian
She doesn’t take well to low-protein
Shakes and twirling
She needs daily sacrifices
Of bulls, goats
And anything that breathes
Before it dies
In the hand of the high priest Ezra
Before it dies
When you know you’re too old
Before it dies
And the century dances for
The son or daughter you never had

Pigeon in a Cake Tray / Tho Thea Youm Chlong
Ferrugo Hawkins / man of winter in a dusty suit / air filter over nose and mouth / Ferrugo
Hawkins / rings buzzer for apt 9 / "Hello?"inquires a voice/ behind pierced metal wall / "I'm sorry
I'm late," says Ferrugo / "Fatal car accident on the bridge. Traffic's a mess. Whole family in a
hatchback wiped out. I took pictures of course. Lots. Artistic, even.... " / The door buzzes open /
Ferrugo opens door / enters apartment / approaches a dining room table / there / a pigeon on its
back, in a cake tray/ The pigeon hosts maggots, dancing / "What's the matter?" asks a voice /
"Don't you want to sit down?" / From his pocket / Ferrugo's hand produces / 550 paracord / braid
unraveled / nobby hands tie one end to a sidetable / Ferrugo opens window / climbs down/
paracord rips hands / blood scars Saint Anne house of white / sunlight pulses over shadow of man
/ leaving unfinished business / behind

Operant Conditioning /On Intrepid Contagion
I was born in a centripetal spring armchair facing an executive desk on the corner of which sat a
grim figure in a chalk line suit with two slender fingers clasping a cigarillo. His words: "You're a
phoney, a failure and an affront to stalwart citizens of this country. You have no natural ability and
will be buried on the city's dime."
I excused myself and crawled toward something pendulous with a leaky knot at one end.

Serviette Humidifiée / Graves of Lust
When Drosophila Blakey came storming out of a meat freezer in a one piece floral bathing suit with
two water pistols blazing her brother Robert hardly looked up from his piano. He improvised and
expanded and built up a cake, and washed off her disturbance with a moist omelette. On most
Tuesday mornings, Robert plays by the window of Kibroth Hattaavah 's Meat Shop ("Our Meat is to
Die For").
While a bride advanced in her pregnancy sits outside, marking pages of a Medical Encyclopedia with
whole trout and pressing them shut with her bottom, a short motorcyclist stands on a step stool,
lancing a cyst on the back of the building superintendent's neck. When the puss is completely
drained, the incision reveals an on/off toggle switch. When placed in the “off” position, the world
turns black.