FLAMENCO by Dean Young
The sexual gasps coming from the garden shed
of my friends turning twenty, tipsy
droll joke of my friends turning thirty, lost
car keys even with tied-to-them a silly whistle
turning forty, bullshit about September
the most passionate month fifty, bird-watching
nap my friends sixty, turning empty chair
at card-club on my friends turning, turning
while I remain unchanged, a peach pit,
still assisting an ant with a stick,
tapping a peanut to signal a squirrel,
a collection of eternal accidents
while the body, without pity, shrinks,
expands, noises coming from it like
trapped rabbits, sometimes muffled
xylophone, its liquids fermenting,
drunk on itself, dance just foot slams,
painting just spray and spill, brain commanding
its grit to become ruby, won’t, tears amniotic,
incinerated dust then an oblivious nephew
given my watch in a velvet sack,
my ghost eating mulberries in a tree,
still stained, my tyrannosaurus skull still
trying to poke through a mouse hole in the cosmos.
Chris Bronsk 
;)
You never know when the moment strikes. Thanks for the reblog.
Thanks, Emily!!
Thanks, Richard, for that generous feedback. Dean Young is great fun, you’ll enjoy his work.
love your titles (and the pictures!)
I so like your style, Chris. Perfect titles too. Thanks for the intro to Dean Young.
Reblogged this on My Choice and commented:
Looks very much like the ‘open air’ toilets in townships South Africa….
:-)
Cool, thanks. Glad you like them.
these are cool/fab.