TANK

how plain its days, the flatly painted
haze in the dopler by the mirror, the rondure
lined with erratic cabinetry, spaces
for helium grandees whose perilous
snatch-phrases run out belting on tethers
to touch the kaitakas of freshly printed
jowpy birds whose simple single songs
win the thorough adoration of any
with sufficient elevation, their heels
a flux of esteem and caterwauling prose,
the long-stemmed varietals yoked by the
galleys of their thoughts en nascence,
the dumb blooms soaking up millions
of extras for their weird movies
of Vegas.

Groovy.

Togas flow out eternally from their shoulders
like waterfalls, and cities nest in their stockings
like kites made of rays and twisted aires, what
gamboling of almost replicant forms, every copy
jauntily clad in parity disparity, odes, these
mice stretched to bassoon proportion, these
blowholes of rainbows appeared from anywhere
to flaunt their haircurtains which mimic dispair,
or the pillaloo of pululant hulls as they
screech their chrome coal nutter bisps
to stage hands, such numpy whillilewing
mumblerblunts smoking their own twins
for gospel blox. An hour wet is a year noddy,
some fat brown ambigenial cousins
must come into kiss

the stooless
brow's

horizon.