Holland swirls around my ankles –
deep sea blue dip triggers,
heavy in a magic throat,
painting turquoise shades of amazement;
lit like a bouquet set on fire;
smoldering in Rilke’s fragrance of dark earth.
Curative hip cylinders –
turned on a curved white spine
a smooth ashen cast on
a Swedish frame made for devouring –
one light away from
disintegrating into a mythical life.
No more devious invention set thin
against a transcendental heat wave –
worn down –
taken aside –
kite controlled –
old testament truth serums –
a lactating stream at the bottom of a stairwell.
There are no more lobster phones to call
burning ants or giraffes in this
world of fired surrealism while you
speak fluent French to snail carcasses
lathered in spiny food bouquets,
soaking the core contents so deep
in thorny red wines that we disintegrate
our Puritan thoughts with a
fractured manner soliloquized by the
sharp moniker we never knew
belonged to us all along.
© Nublin’s Pub, 2009
Author notes
Did somebody say, "Biangularly spanked?" or am I just hearing things again? Here's to gaggin' on Gack!
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Well that was most interesting but then again, I've never seen a picture quite like that lol
I've never gagged on gack before though
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Pure Dali - if you've read this poem, you've gagged on gack... all virginity lost in just one lobster phone call...
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The ancient smell of stardust
Lies heavy in the nebulaic fog
While I wait for my party line to ring
Three short, three long, three short
Is that a call for help?
Wake me when it's over..
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nebulaic fog that chimes, man! can I use that...? it never ends, brother - stay asleep and dream what you like...
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groovin on your gackalicious grunge.
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