Release the Drones

It is in loving memory and with deep regret that we request the honour of your presence. (Please note that even stateside jurisdictions must deploy the anglicized “honour” because of its formal “feel.” This decision, being executive, is not negotiable. We appreciate your slavish cooperation.)

→  That’s the kind of day it was.

We regret to inform you it’s our pleasure to announce the music might stand in the way. Motor expired when the temperature peaked? No worries, valued customer: hitch your wrists to our new delivery drone.

→  And now, this.

The fact in dispute is not that her trepidation preceded her, sending ripples into the room, detected even by the least intuitive but rather, as shown in subsection 12 and also in the carbon copy, the horses’ breath hovered like levitating gauze.

→  Which drew from the crowd a smattering of mmms.

It’s not so much the Word as wielder’s whip; it’s more a distaste for the sound of skull on marble floor when legs and neck have given out. Doesn’t will do wonders for the latticework of muscles? Is the body not a fact?

→  But first, a warning: some of the images in this item are graphic in nature.

Okay, so I spoke like a funeral home. And then I said the music might stand in the way, and recommended more “sophisticated” transport. Then we were buffeted contrarily by legalese and something flowery. Lastly I said some shit on bodily fact and will.

→  The bits between, we may assume, were snark.

Hell, bro, you might think, so much for straight goods. You’re right. It’s not my scene. I feel a little lost here, friends, I’m sort of straining at the neck, and round my brow I’ve got this strap for tugging someone else’s load. Your fear is not naive: an artery could pop.

But my breath, when I stop to exhale, floats around me in shimmering layers, the bandages of Lazarus, perhaps, unravelling in the cold… 

→  I hope my surgeon, when the time comes, knows full well

      the facts of which a body is composed.



Exterminator (Poem Resorted by Alphabet, #3)

All I wanted to tell you is they found a growth But why must you always bring up my failure Carrying secrets that would scandalize the pure Each insect rustling in the drywall Every atom of your house is toxic In the hollow under my one good eye In thirty days you will be free of pests Takes its little portion of the poison That one damn time to “Like” your stupid post That ought to satisfy you That shouldn’t be there, germinating The chemicals have done their trick

Peter Norman has published one novel (Emberton) and four poetry collections, most recently Some of Us and Most of You Are Dead (Buckrider Books, 2018); you can learn more about his stuff at