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blow your hallowed countryman
Into a trance falls even the laden beast,
cumquat eyeballs from corner to corner
nail him down, jasper colored nickels jangle
in his half ruptured, nail punctured contraption
of a sac. Don’t bow out soldier, blow your
hallowed countryman into his fidgety semblance;
massage those tentacles suctioned to those
dead turtle shell necessities. Milk the goat
for every dry drop of insane pick-me-up juice,
then without wonder holler down the hall
because she’s a distant cousin, undies still on.
Rumble rumble sausage cart- darting without buns.
All the men come running, then figure, well,
the hopscotch chalk has all but washed away,
let’s lavish in the fact that the boughs, weighed down
severely by not even kittens, are kissing practically
this new day, like a daughter. Shape me, you say
to the day, as if to be thrown on a clay wheel.
Bring yourself into the fact of the mirror.
Uncoil for once in your life and realize
that all that creaking and the leaking fluid
fucks the place up and stains your satin unicorn.
I want milk! cries the child under fifteen feet of rubble
(aka her dream) and in comes wandering
this unknown man; splashing from cylinders,
all that’s left from some arduous journey.
The grunts dissipate while the moon
does some autonomous dip and we hold
each other’s hands, eyes closed and gritting teeth,
our noses itchy like there’s someone
talking about us.
-anonymous
