TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE i.e. the DEAD OF IRAQ:
(glaucously, raucously)

In the vault of heaven
In the steam of heaven
In the crease of heaven
In the jeans of heaven
In the genes of heaven
In the dream of heaven
In the grease of heaven
In the seam of heaven
In the cream of heaven
On the thigh of heaven
In the guise of heaven
In the sky in heaven
In the sweet of heaven
In the sweat of heaven
Turing test of heaven
Hot tureen of heaven

Hot wax in heaven
In the cracks of heaven
Cellophane in heaven
On the drain of heaven
Wet drip of heaven
In the crypt of heaven
Counterfeit in heaven
On the clit of heaven
Lead tip of heaven
In the clip of heaven
Gold plait of heaven
Sur le plage of heaven
Pest wind in heaven
In the surge of heaven
In the surge of heaven
In the heavenly surge
In the heavenly urgency
Purge-ry perjory

THE PENNSYLVANIA SWEETS (triplets):

Pennsylvania sweet thief station
sweet taffy on the rind of the moon
Pennsylvania sweet sweet stantion
stained and sagging blinding bandage of the moon

Gonna whistle home you blind stallion
gonna whistle home you blind goon
gonna whistle me home you blind capsule
landing in a pustule of the moon

My target’s face it was pockmarked
tho hidden by a sack of ice
tho hidden like a crooked account book
fell open where the hammer hit twice

O whistle me home, you blind stallion
O whistle me home, you blind foal
I’ll be whistling home, through my chokehold
throathole won’t you histle me home

AVARICE REVERIE, USMC:

Reverie reverie and the last marine was Avarinne
when the last marine climbed from the scene
her flanks were gilt with avarinne
her cheeks were cut with avarinne
she checks were cut from avarinne
her irises were rimey and they went whoot whoot
the closed eye of the camera went whoot whoot
the brain’s black camaro went whoot whoot
tossed off its pearly lining like a two piece suit
eyes turned white as a consulting room
an owl’s eye ate up the marrow of the room
then the last marine climbed out of me
her locks were cleaved with averinne
her locks were struck with averinne
her teeth were thick with averinne
Oh break the doors from their hing-es
Oh break the very hinges from the door-ors
The corny twang and the neural niches
of the girl who went down swinging as she swore-ore
O averinne how I wish for gold
O averinne how I wish to hold
in the cauldron of my human hand
a globlet from your treasure horde
like spit in the tress or trees in the dress
treasurine how I list for thee
treasurine how I lisp for thee
and pour my cargo to the sea
and pour my cargo into thee
treasurine here’s a hip for thee
treasurine here’s a lip for thee
treasurine a harelip for thee
treasurine a hip flask for thee
treasurine here’s flak for thee
treasurine in the gut of thee
the boot is a clump it goes clump clump
the wrist is a gauntlet that clutches the gut
to the gut of the woods I humped my clump
in the gut of the woods my hump came up
from the gultch of the gut I whupped my whelp
clutching its gut I docked its tail
I docked its pay I read this tale
the big metal bird went whup whup whup
with my blood it was whet as it went up up
a girl in the tread and a girl on the blade
a girl in night vision and a girl on nightraid
defibrillate night’s sternum with your enfilade
defibrillate night’s sternum with your Escalade
till she wears her martyr’s dressing like a coach wears gatorade

Joyelle McSweeney is the author most recently of Percussion Grenade, poems and a play from Fence Books, and the upcoming Salamandrine, 8 Gothics, prose and a play from Tarpaulin Sky, as well as four other volumes of prose and poetry and an artist’s book, The Necropastoral, from Spork Press. She edits Action Books, writes for the collective blog Montevidayo, and  teaches at the University of Notre Dame. For 2012-3, she will be a Visiting Professor at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.