04-14-2017, 02:23 AM
Notes From Dafidalia
How cool was the cosmos, fucked-up
mostly, when I started leaking
break fluid, then seminal and
cerebrospinal fluid. What clicks
to make this work is the voraciousness
of time - like shooting pineapples
in the bathtub, with a machine gun.
Pineapple #1 - I chose to become
an ammonia-based life form, or is it vinegar –
whichever goes with V-8 juice and olive oil
for a cheap dressing for greens and onions,
which you prepared and I never ate.
The pounding wore me down.
Pineapple #2 – your dafidalia
half a pail of lust approach,
I knew couldn’t last. My failings
drew me to the edge, to the staccato
drip of urban catastrophe–the chop-shop
of cardiovascular metaphor. Ahhhh!
Nuance was in the air, then lost –
the accreted condensation from
exhausts of a thousand trucks an hour
over this frozen tarvia half-pipe run, and
credenza-speak is black ice / bleak ice.
Bleak House / blockhouse.
Pineapple #3 I become an insect
by summer, a thingie that looks like a
giant mosquito, scares but doesn’t bite.
I fly in from the outer rings to earth, into
the atmosphere, to take the other side - I am
on the other end of the line, I volley from
across the net, I scream because I can,
but only to myself.
I become barium, then carbon-based, retract
my exo-skeleton, grow some flesh, and
here is Pineapple #4: Because of or
despite you, and your incipient cunning,
I roll the rock away and get up for
breakfast. I think I slept for three days.
Happy Easter, baby-cakes.
I’m dead.
How cool was the cosmos, fucked-up
mostly, when I started leaking
break fluid, then seminal and
cerebrospinal fluid. What clicks
to make this work is the voraciousness
of time - like shooting pineapples
in the bathtub, with a machine gun.
Pineapple #1 - I chose to become
an ammonia-based life form, or is it vinegar –
whichever goes with V-8 juice and olive oil
for a cheap dressing for greens and onions,
which you prepared and I never ate.
The pounding wore me down.
Pineapple #2 – your dafidalia
half a pail of lust approach,
I knew couldn’t last. My failings
drew me to the edge, to the staccato
drip of urban catastrophe–the chop-shop
of cardiovascular metaphor. Ahhhh!
Nuance was in the air, then lost –
the accreted condensation from
exhausts of a thousand trucks an hour
over this frozen tarvia half-pipe run, and
credenza-speak is black ice / bleak ice.
Bleak House / blockhouse.
Pineapple #3 I become an insect
by summer, a thingie that looks like a
giant mosquito, scares but doesn’t bite.
I fly in from the outer rings to earth, into
the atmosphere, to take the other side - I am
on the other end of the line, I volley from
across the net, I scream because I can,
but only to myself.
I become barium, then carbon-based, retract
my exo-skeleton, grow some flesh, and
here is Pineapple #4: Because of or
despite you, and your incipient cunning,
I roll the rock away and get up for
breakfast. I think I slept for three days.
Happy Easter, baby-cakes.
I’m dead.