Saturday, April 9, 2011

Boteed Its Pure Selane

I told her I needed to shave my
fourth leg she said
you can't wear a phrygian cap
in a baseball suture

I just wok that whey
eye sad

tiers gathering
opera clouds embarking suture
eastern tribes delegation
suddenly bridges went up

the machine trained an arrow
onto the place where there was no pelvis array
hovering cattle-like short haired nautili
would inscribe the air
with chalky rocky runes

laying there floating
a snake would be casual to the air
like green in soup
like light in angel

its whole body was a sheepish light
where the pelvis had contracted

i now see colonial beings fighting free from their ancestors'
hylegonauts by the schwestern rite

his fourth leg shown like a candle
in its golden sac
a tree of retractable plugs
and symphonies

take the bat
to lamb

the lamb would lick the bat
the bat's head
would fill the cave entrance
its jaunty phrygian cap

Benjamin Franklin
Were-Bat Sewing Machine
the queuing trysts
of fomvala

his final critique was sympathy
yurt breath
moomoos of lace
laying under crumbly stone buckles
whose belts had long since
went livid
into lettres