04-16-2016, 05:51 AM
Stories to Fluff a Walrus
A classically formed eye, rimmed
with glasses, black globes arriving
from above, over the colored parts.
It comes to your choice - the fedora,
cigar, and bourbon. Without ice.
Between the fly and more flies, appear
a flower, a feather and a fish. The feather
waves, the fish wiggles. The flower smells
better than the fish, the fish tastes better
than the flies, the flies are quicker than
the flower. That’s the whole f’ing picture.
You see the background sweeps upward like a neck
leading to flecked stars in the night. The foreground
is a tree without leaves, just cherries, each like
death itself, choice red against a rising spattered void.
When the motion sensor triggers the spotlights
the wildlife camera captures bodies dodging,
faking, flesh and fur surging toward the bushes.
He stands in a dark coat, collar up, she holds
the cigarette with her lips. The air is saturated
with sparkles, sweet wet snow dots zip toward
the camera’s eye like eye drops, like pregnant
little novas ready to explode.
Starfish cluster together, look like hands forming
the relief effort, all except the applause, or maybe
just a hundred reaching tongues in search of honey.
I am a robot with one antenna, yellow eyes,
metal skin. I hope to carry the beautiful red dressed
woman from the lake before I short out or rust up.
That can’t be part of these stories.
A classically formed eye, rimmed
with glasses, black globes arriving
from above, over the colored parts.
It comes to your choice - the fedora,
cigar, and bourbon. Without ice.
Between the fly and more flies, appear
a flower, a feather and a fish. The feather
waves, the fish wiggles. The flower smells
better than the fish, the fish tastes better
than the flies, the flies are quicker than
the flower. That’s the whole f’ing picture.
You see the background sweeps upward like a neck
leading to flecked stars in the night. The foreground
is a tree without leaves, just cherries, each like
death itself, choice red against a rising spattered void.
When the motion sensor triggers the spotlights
the wildlife camera captures bodies dodging,
faking, flesh and fur surging toward the bushes.
He stands in a dark coat, collar up, she holds
the cigarette with her lips. The air is saturated
with sparkles, sweet wet snow dots zip toward
the camera’s eye like eye drops, like pregnant
little novas ready to explode.
Starfish cluster together, look like hands forming
the relief effort, all except the applause, or maybe
just a hundred reaching tongues in search of honey.
I am a robot with one antenna, yellow eyes,
metal skin. I hope to carry the beautiful red dressed
woman from the lake before I short out or rust up.
That can’t be part of these stories.