the twit


    poempost: buncombe

    an old poem. a villanelle, oddly. was reminded of it during a recent bout of disgust with a mode of writing that promotes a toxic admixture of the confessional moment and the esoteric (self-)reference. twitter can so easily become the world's bathroom stall.

    All you anonymous kings
    - for a gas station in Buncombe, NC

    Caught between the curtains of duty, some
    let the moment bring what it brings,
    others scribble speeches for Buncombe.

    Perhaps, when the service has begun,
    the honey-scroll is all ink and wings;
    stuck on the feverish mind, it must become.

    Or, someone left a whisper in the drum,
    and, fear – lest the ugly-horns sing –
    yields a toneless whistle for Buncombe.

    Maybe it’s truth – bitches crave my cum;
    Friday. 11:30. The Real Thing –

    crammed a whisper away from someone.

    Since dogs hide what they have done,
    it could be the dirt and grass they fling
    to avert the noble eyes of Buncombe.

    But, I am loathe to follow the lonesome
    strings of all you anonymous kings,
    so fixed to a minute’s naked wisdom
    on an awful soapbox in downtown Buncombe.