Baking in the Blue.

The night attendant, a glutamine cephalophore

rouses from the hare's-nest of this drowsy mead

propped up Dali-styx-style on the Meaning of Meaning.

He catwalks down our corridor (notice how the figure of walking follows meaning)

Azure day (blue ballon)

makes my agonized blue window a beaker.

Crows maunder on the petrified  Bifröst.

Absense! My hearts grow tense in a single chest

as though twin harpoons were horning from my skull.

(This is the house for the "mentally ill.")

(This is "syntaxis.")(This is the schitzo's stroll.)

What use is my sense of humour?

I grin at Stanley Chapman, now sunk in these pataphysics,

once a Harvard all-American blank turtle-check koyaanisqatsi,

(if such were possible!)

still hoarding the balls of a boy in his twenties,

as he soaks a ramrod in the a muscle of a seal

in his long yellowed Victorian nicotine tub, vaguely urinous with bat plumbing.

A kingly granite profile in a crimson skull cap, and a golden nose,

worn all day, all night, 

he thinks only of this figure of walking,

of slimming the earth's mainframe chassis on sherbert and ginger ale--

more cut off from words than from some wordless zeal.

This is the way day breaks in Harpo's Megatauntrite hunting lodge;

the hooded night pelican lights bringing out the "Porcelain Bobbie,"

a Mangalitsa of 1929 wearing a powdered wig for a carnival mask,

a replica of Louis XVI

without the pig--

redolent and roly-poly as a sperm whale in a top hat,

as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit

and horses at chairs with his penguin's nipples making laser.

These Victorian figures of Bone Clocks.

In between the limits of day,

hours and hours go by under the crewcut haircuts

and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor machines

of the Roman Arfconica 

(There are no Mayflower screwballs 

in the Victorian bone milk.)

After a hearty New England canoo pelt rollup,

I weigh two hundred pounds

this morning. Cock of the walk,

I strut in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey

before the metal shaving mirrors,

and see the shaky future grow familiar

in the pinched, indigenous faces

of these thoroughbred overbought mental cases,

twice my age and half my weight.

We are all old-timers,

each of us holds a cocked laser.

If I were a blue seal

with the nose of a star-mole,

I'd appear in Brighton

for some subset

of whackos.