Spree MacDonald THREE POEMS


Bruiser of the boardwalks
puppy chucker
crash plastic trolley
Konkababy dons hirsute
bellies through the
pumpkin rust sunset
in sweet pink skullcap
and henchmen’s redress
wrestles trash cans
along the crumble curb

brazed in tethers
infibulated in fits
caverns stitched into
Bucyrus born
of nighttime syruptions
into the fists of
Dr. Epaulette and his
Axumite shoulder jig
singing something about
the cancer of origins

A fence line erupts
into neon Picasso whips
my ghost buggy mare
shambles through an
abscess of ruins
eyeing the anxious
boulevard for you
my loyal shotgun blast

Purpling a bruise in the
night beside me
a whispersmith alights:
“Nothing but bones
to dig ourselves
out of this one”
she breaths into my cheek,
“Nothing but bones.
Here, drink this
with your dirty hand”
A stone-flavored broth

As I’m knapping patella
scraps into razors
as I’m awaiting the
space gun’s report
as this nag trenches
about under the weight
of the obelisk eye
my face slowly dilates
and absorbs
a fence line
a roadside…
a chest like a mudslide

my mouth fills with howl
I’m overtone droning
I’m suckling knuckles
I’m clicking this molar rosary
and Konka’s elbow descends

Scrape a grave
in the apple stones
this one good horse
has slipped its joints


I keep a pitchfork

for pogroms
and peat harvests,
and fishing bog bodies
from tar shallows

I sip brine drops
from desiccated finger tips
quenched wry
like this dead man’s
last leather smile

I’m stick leaning
with a reed
in the darkness


“like a scar that runs through you and comes out your face”
Josh Fox, Gasland

You are shrieking in the shower again
as you grasp ass and face together
raking eyes flushed in chemical flames,
and this dangling helix between your buns
leeches grey into the hairy drain

The scar erupts from the inside you
what have you been thinking?
trash heap feeding
shale shambling
alighting in gaseous balloons
from evaporation tanks
gulfing with Miss Florida Lee
on Canal Street
soaking in the oily Atlantic cove
like a molotov wick

On-call-ogists concur
one gut pumps another
huffing in the pumping station
fracking your substrata
scaring up gas pockets
in dull cramps and rashes

I taste the numen in your saliva
some sort of corroded snowball
bushings burst
your breath pickles
it moves in the gravity of heat

So it is with these faucets aflame,
that’s when you know you’re living in hell

Spree MacDonald lives and writes in New Orleans, Louisiana. He teaches humanities courses in the Academic Studio of the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts.
KONKABABY previously appeared in Issue 2 of Symmetry Pebbles (http://symmetrypebbles.com).


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