Thursday, July 7, 2011

WERE I YOUR SCURVY YOUR SAILOR

As Euclidean tights they can only really be rocked
by Mighty Mouse. The towel empurples.

Based on the design of their runny noses, shrimps
have taught us new combinations of uses for
trumpets and porridge. Are secretly
enamored with the enema a scurvied sailor
had tossed overboard – pale pink, cracked.

Clowns who know influenza is a variant of the
metamorphosis of meringue.
Infatuation with a novelty coaster and the tailcoats
of Italian vignettes stood on by your heavy glass,
as they try to run away and in the process get disrobed.

If you could read my mind, something of you would pool ankle-deep
inside a funnel. AIDS sold to a hobo by a godlike salesman.

Ominous. The clothes rustling in the Trojan trolley:
I bet I'm in there, and I bet no one suspects it.
And I bet I'm gonna jump out and make a fool of myself.
Between the parentheses of the prosthetic brace:
the ebbs and flows of nothingness that allow themselves to be parsed.
With a ruler. A shoe. A dismembered penis wearing a shoe.
Over the edges of sorcery's paper cut-out trick of the eye,

the Metropolis's metabolic quicksilver hisses and showers.
Sleeping with a cloven mermaid. She's ambulatory.
Can walk. Learning from a shop assistant the sinful practice
of parrots – text messaging
while walking. 
 
On her deathbed sticky as a hot iron,
but beautiful as a scratch card with coin-shaped welts.

The world is not sinister.
From the front I'm operatic like treetops – from behind
I'm a food processing plant.

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