Django

The red concentric eyebleed mocks
the forty-year-old poster paper
yellow saurian pupil outpacing
baseline white
guncotton
colour popping
in the emulsion of a nitrate
sandwich on unsafe stock
hot cross mustard piercing
the plangent cornea of
the boy who sits
where reels within reels
sprinkle the antechamber
with humours wet
and not glassy.

Preserved meat serves
to feed and clothe
the gun-smoking cowpoke
in blue jeans and a jazzy name
as he sits, barely leaning,
cantilevered pelvis
and four-square knees
against a wall sketched by shadow
of a potted plant, slowly
animated by
the off-season convection
of affairs of the
blood-pumping world
its random coils
set and ignite.

When the wind whispers
his skin blisters
a sensitive transistor
in word and deed
a carnivore with a pure heart
conceiving in the deli's
revolving blades
a vacation by you
to which he'd ride
if his spurs still had
flanks to bite;
but the horse
was slaughtered
by the sauerkraut cackle
of a raging chaingang gun.

Alone, he rests
half in and half far gone
beyond the sprockets
of his kind
of picture, which
kind of hangs
on my wall. A
cross-shaped stick
pokes both
our eyes sharper
than any star-shaped
slice of tin; but faded
meat and rabid
dye
will bring us
to our bruising heels -

limp them into coffins
as the train rolls out
and town just tumbles away.