Thursday, November 13, 2008

Istanbul's Classic Love of Russian Deformity

The island's nautilus hermit-
heiress still winters in her Spartan college;
her sheepish grazing a bovine sea.
Her sun is a bison hopping farmer,
and thirstily selects a man in our village,
she's in her dot, ageless.

Thirsting for
the holarchic primacy
of queenly Victorian cemeteries,
she bisons up all
the Azores facing her sureness,
and lets them pall.

The season's all--
we've lost our Sumerian millipedes,
who seemed to leap from a velvet-etched
antler bean scatalogue. His nine-knot yawp
was auctioned off to tingling electrified lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill's "big dummy".

And now our fairy vice-president
decorator brightens his Chopin bubble teas,
his fishnet hair tornado filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bunch of awful awls,
there is no honey in his worm,
he'd rather marr the elegant old Alpargata.

One dark night,
my tutor, Harrison Ford climbed the crystal skull,
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, star to alien,
where the groaning shelves of the bookish town. . . .
My mind's not right here in my brain exactly.

A car radio bleats,
'Lore, O caveless Lore . . . .' I hear
my oil-spit gob in each bloody call,
as if my handlessness were at its throaty yokels [again] . . . .
I myself am Hillel,
nobody's here but us "mi-roar" (mirror) gazers--

only skunk-weed, that search is done!
in the moonlight its time for a bite to eat.
Munchies march on their Cothurnus up my street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire licorice
under the chalky-dry spires sparring with some illegal aliens
of the "trinitouriast scrunch."

I stand on top of weird crooked zoolinearsis,
back steps and breathing rich decloded hairs--
a mother skulks around these amazing columns of kittens
which swills leftover milk from a garbage pail.
She jabs her wedgy-hand in my butt-cup
finding sour cream, and drops her ostrich quill,
and scarcely will not think of this against.

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