8 | justin mcelfresh



w/in the opera curtains
of yr heart
brandishing matchbooks & accelerants
such atavistic
this is getting considerably daft
2nd ave.
some chance fotos
of you
& so on ’til we lose focus
each other on the finer points of knife-fights
& haiku
so don’t take this too seriously
running sideways into sunny triangles
storm-cloud gin & clunky
tulips whilst
driving a firetruck through my aorta
the appearance is
as a windowpane strewn w/blood
as we make love
reminiscent of ottava rima & minimalistic
treble clef stet
what i’m trying to articulate
is equinoctial
is that i want you to break my heart


*ld gr*wth tr33s, w:ldfl*wr swall*ws


this morning i woke up, ragtime carnations
gilded daylight
thin and foto-blue underneath
the syracuse
of last evening’s knotted-chaparral pulse

nerve furnace
wheat rung, undecided art

this afternoon’s time zones, doppler effect
a polaroid equinox
we are building our own defiant heartland
w/ surface & depth
tin foil, a sprawl of baby’s breath

ferric oxide interludes

this evening’s proselytized symbology,
a mimeographed aria
the only way this is going to work
is if the blood is disrupted as it elides the premise
b/c we need this barb wire


justin mcelfresh was (ostensibly) caught hanging fire outside the barricade of a semicolon soldering a quiet sunday afternoon to some previous clause; he has come to the conclusion that ‘biography’ is a filing cabinet in arrears. that being established, the author is ensconced in oakland, california considering the bank shot of this miniature story. he is having a bully day. are you having a bully day?