towards sweeter play, neanic ruffles pouring
through mock pensive mouths, all some implodious
repast or humm.
humms that are mouths sweetly playing into
neanic ruffles agency agast at the gape
the fake flat lens pretending a lens in black
but solid.
clown shoe lodged in the cockpit
crowding the controls, clown shoe
growing, the rigorously rootlessness
of hooting, loot, the Leidenfrost's
hot planar breath along the surface
of being's gelid denomena.
socratic irony as engine, the ridiculous
poised as the only conscious and serious
approachement, rap and parse too congruent,
congroineal, the wiles of the crystal,
glub cubs shiffting Kurosawa mirrors
under old wooden cameras, mouths
full of Samurai butterflies, the whole ole'
on bales of lavender squirming, odalisques
of meaning squirming on patties of cultivars
of wild flowers; whatever is construction?
leg star, replicating jaw blinds,
Cynthogenesmintheusian light
itself made of glass mouse heads,
the sajuaro zeppelin castle
rooted
our bandito gila
scales its mass
the weird girl Prometheus thing
trapped in Bachelard's tupperware.
Fire made of Tupperware
crawling with pink amoeba coffee.
Cultiverse.
Occultiverse.
Shih Shin Nishi Shu.
Original Chopaosusi
floppy centaur wontons
litter the limnivules
Sappho in saffron.
She's the son of Saturn
for Goya's gobbler.
No swain, yo.
Porque no sueño casi nunca?
The amoeba cellphone
takes the shape of a hand
patterned in old Vienna.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
That...was pretty intense, from its neanic ruffled fluting tubes to its oleo-an'-lavender concupiscibines. I want a set of replicating jaw blinds; if only that which is easily fractured and reproductively slide-smeared on the screen could be clattering quietly on my dusty window.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed that poem; thank you for it. I thought it quite beautiful. I liked the centaur wontons all discarded. I suspect there is more here I need to look up, but neanic was nice enough to learn for coffee A.
G***damn (goat? hmm) rubber seal on my nice new brought-from-the-city waterpipe has already ripped. I need some twine. Did I mention that we lost all our wooden technology, long ago? Now, we live in this drugged ceramic culture, leaden water clogging our veins and breeding still heavier in an endless spinning. We still have twine, though, and gearboxes. I don't have any twine, unfortunately. the only string here is some kind of plastic, slippery stuff that I can't trick into sticking under itself.
As if you want to know. Thanks for the poem!
captcha=lings! I like that one. Tonguefish.