Poem # 57

I should have wings growing
out of my head for all the
Tuesdays I’ve been dead
wearing monocles that
mystify a necrotic
apprentice steep
stair playing, jerkily,
near blind, and
demurely I stare out.

A benign miscalculation
which mends you,
but you still run
a muck of a triple-decker
bus of forbidden girls
in slight fleece.

The Technicolor misadventure
of thundering oceans sunk
below the ground in
Mesopotamia like apparently
forgotten morphine, you
await another demodulation
formulated into derringer
feathers with a motorcar
budget and
antediluvian desires.

You misremember a
four penny timepiece
that is divisible by
a swallow tail’s message
A gendarme, a bubbling
lupine girl with a
rapture armband
contriving vengeance
burning houses with
She wore her nightclothes
like a playful escalator
A counter point to
flowers, and an
endpoint to


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