2 Poems Melissa Christine Goodrum


sound



a great grey elephant,

heavy brown and a fjord

of dirty furry monkeys

sound like something being killed

the red mahogany fiddle

is a thought, it screams

in the middle



like your stomach after

a bit of raw meat,

rapists and red fiddles,

just take the bread and go







the exhibitor

of words



undervalued and strapped

to a chair,

like a bulged blossom

and two wounds lipping.

this four-eyed spell-maker,

like musical lids open

in a window

of a closed shop

inside a cave,

he plays the pipes

he is a volcano



where a hooded wizard

plucks a chicken

and feeds

its lips to the mage