Spigot Trinket

The lake is shaving its form. The dazzling flu cuisine mirrors the tumble of belts in a drum of adults and this makes the lake both sad and subconscious. It’s clearly a lake. What isn’t clear are the perturbations and wrecks at the bottom. The many writhing figures, the columns of victory, the proportions and stools. What do we make of these things? Is this a moral universe, or just another truck stop along the way?

The heel of the universe drinks an ingot of Sunday’s planet. The old tiger senses a thought in the throat and lets it out in the form of a hotel. What I’m trying to do here is ugly. It has to be. It has to be shaggy and weird and automatic or the arthropods won’t dance and the curves in the eye will fail to transfer the images to the brain. The brain is constantly hungry for stories. It must be appeased by detachment. It’s the only solution there is to the aggressive delicacies of tea.

A new parable emerges from my sleep. Our wall has been expecting it. I’ll admit it. I was drunk. The spins were improved by electing a frontier to be my wife. I won’t mention the secrecies of the garden and its many perversions. Let’s just say that the new arena is good for inflating fingers, and the bar is a mailbox for the letters of the soul. But it’s the infinite that borders our little shell of straw and violins.

This is a poem about Danny Kirwan. We will go right down to the sea. Bathing in light we will be free to wander. And we will find ourselves splattered by the sociability of surf.

I grow fat to start a franchise. The carrot has its molecular wilts and touches us with swallows. The sloth of the lazy ratatouille pulls a pound of kaolin into a dynamic eye that alters us with its visions. The tea strives to arrive. The heat perfumes Wednesday. I have to go and sew now. I have feathers for the cape and powder for my face.

I design the net away. The frail water likes to hike until it becomes an impala. The bickering words buy us some time. I maneuver the beautiful pendulum into horses. I want to go beyond suggesting perfume. I want to destroy time and resurrect it as life itself.

Life as a wide-eyed tug-of-war with existence at one end and fermentation at the other.

Life as an alarming gown of bugs and boats.

Pages upon pages of paradox. Bristling green moss on a concrete banister. A fashion model tripping on a divine hammer.

Bleed the mailboxes. Shake the pain to simmer a dream. The mint does its insects into growling fornication. I drink and think the pyramids are rascals of ancient empire. I generate knives by burning an experience with a fire in the rain.

I rub the vowels until a genie appears. I rub the genie until a vowel appears. I rub appearance until a genie howls vowels. The clumsy myth is screaming a cave into existence. The tickle is powered and accelerates our transactions. It’s raining suns and collar studs. The rolls play a role and are an impenetrable bungle. The swan queen has chiseled a dance out of fire.