Chuck Swaim (armsext@ix.netcom.com) is editor of Arm's Extent, a little magazine, who lives and works in Seattle.








TWO POINTS OF VIEW FOR THE PRICE OF NONE

Lest it pest and to be forgotten, a spectre's
spectator sought two points for the price of none.

Whether to believe in him, or himself, or not at
what the gentle spectator has seen...languid and slow
a retreat to the pub was in order.

"Stroll on, poor man, to the pub," said the
spectre,"Your ship will meet you at dichotomy's
mourning fathom."

A one spectator's drink of whiskey, is ghost-like,
debating two points of view for the price of none.

-- C.O.S. c 1996 C.O.S.

ECHOES OF VERSE

Echoes of verse,

The writings riding
Down aboard a funeral hearse,
Throngs of a legion with throes of their spirit
Are in their sad and right mind, remembering
The echoes of their dead comrade's verse.
Version sweet were such words...
"Feel my secret, for I will kiss you
When you hear so close."

Echoes of verse,
Echoes of verse,
So much more immaculate
Time to rehearse even though dead
And the spirit has to disperse.

Portend and portion the verbal potion for
The remaining ear to hear the silent flower
Or the loud flapping of moth wings.
Version sweet were such words...
"Feel my secret, for I will kiss you
When you hear so close."

--C.O.S. c1996 C.O.S.






STOLEN & SOMEWHAT DEVOURED

On the mighty hill
there stands a castle fortress.
Its status is virgin from attack
and the protection of men inside
where a burial takes place.

Pests, Vermin, Romaine Lettuce, and
Sandwhiches,
let me rent your ears for a shilling
each.
The baloney internal from this dead
sandwhich that lay
before us was taken very hungrily by
obese thievery in the
middle of the past night or two.

I, The Food Disposal Unit, have not
come here to idolize
or worship this dead sandwhich, but,
alas, to dispose and
grind to oblivion via waterpipe of
this maggot infested sandwhich.
Because quite frankly, it's beginning
to get quite gamey.

But, before we send things to an
ultimate, grinding halt,
it is asked that the Brute Aftershave
say a final prayer in
paying homage to this former
devoured, molded sustenance.



PICKLED PIG HEAD IN A JAR

There goes a pickled pig head in a jar.
Yes, it's a pickled pig head in a jar.
Its body was once whole of head, foot, torso,
feet, wavering to the heartbeat tone-- having once
had pulsed feelings to be felt-- all now slaughtered
by a farmer.

The old man brings it to market in his open-air
basket.

There goes a pickeled pig head in a jar.
A group of children mock its comatose state in the
jar saying,"Look at that pickled pig head in a jar!
Har. Har. Gross! Yummy gross! Har. Har."

"Kids," says the farmer, "this here's good tastin'
vermin. Won't you want to buy a pickled pig head in
a jar?"

They nod no. They nod no.

Captured captive to be sold, the pickled pig head is
now physically blind from slaughter.
Its spirit in the afterworld will see its sale
and the stomach
that will eventually be the new museum of blood
and digestive
muscle where this pickeled pig head from a jar
will be housed.

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