SMOKE KENT, AND MIND THE CASTLE

SMOKE KENT, AND MIND THE CASTLE


Every Terran phones home
that

a blanket is a poem
that warms you up
a puppy you swallow whole

the horizon line is sharp
and distant, conveying
something like Phyllis Diller's
understanding that

the head is a little body,
'un petite religion du phonque'
and
just as the torso has its
dong and tripe
or mahatma gash
lipstick rider,

the skull has its
mouth and tongue
its blinky parts
and inky doodads

inky thinky
thought ought
what is the thing
that can't be bought

Kant or Cantor
Gnit or knot

A kandy klown itself
is a turd
and a kandy whistle

a submarine
wrapped in a
helix thistle

what do gelotopoei,
mimi and moriones
call their
indigenous monkey
shines?

all of matter
space and time
cannot be compressed
down to a line
and yet the string

the string!
so fine a thing!

a kite tied to a nipple
in the spring

a puppy strangling
with its necklace string balloon

EARTH
ARSE
FARCE

like three
little pigs
rowing

in their
trinketous meretricci
called grace

Roman Amoeba Castles
Chinese Paramecium slippers
Aztec Plasmodium Cacti

you touch my cock-horns
with your transparent
cave fish flippers

you touch my translation
error, Moses, with your
Silenus brevity, your
breath-witch-ensuing-constable
not of this

romantischismatrix

Let X = 'a poem'
written upon a wrinkly mandarin
about the exploits
of an Oriental Negro
from Dumaguete City

on Robert Downey Junior's
ironic relationship
to the 7% solution