Segue to the top quince guitar and fustian parlance,
caught with your organs in the canopic jar,
in cadence the debt marches through the marshmallows
cuffed for killing metaphors and retreating from symptoms
the simpletons have cornered the power which is why
marksmen are needed to judo the elect to redemption
probate for wills, there's a highway to frisk by accident
that a twenty-four track studio can't light a match for the liquid
sound pricklers, patched-up pirates sculled and crossboned
without any concept of positioning the flag to be burned.
Caliban and Sycorax, the two new moons of Uranus, my pretty
between daffys and the wawa there must be some fallout to this
or language is not reversed in extermination, I'll let you know
when I figure out what metonymy means to my tumtum.
I fall aloof from the roof of my mouth
south toward a fuller fall where fools land lazily
enough to transpire in dedication to the date's dream.
Comedy burns a hole in the tragic outline of your inbox
your mascara, a carapace of dream pop
and night squeezed out of toothpaste tubes to make
the unseen concrete, crystallize your eyes stille nacht
You don't need a yacht to pronounce it dead on arrival,
the death of a rival, the double-jointed eyes,
sin's anesthesia, the cold metal trap of doorless corridors.
I'd bullfight you for another batch of that unsmothered gust
from nowhere where nobody wears anything out
and hand me downs are like a second pair of hands
to reflect upon the shield of ocelli behind apparent glass
(money changes but you still have hands)
where radioactivity performs its bulletproof ballet
or up on the highwire which we all can manage because
of those labyrinths in our ears, string-singers wingless
wolfing down the remote, trained for wages ruffled
each circus calliope its own canister of sunset,
subset of the stars' enconstellated ink.
So's I, so's I, so's I.
Not a crustacean, not the eustachian tube, not Euston Station.
An acoustician ducking under the meridian of the eye zone.
None the worse for the tether to that distraught hat.
No zines, no acronyms.
Gman, hymen, imam, caveman.
It's a lexicon, for fuck's sake, take the gas out.