05-27-2022, 11:37 AM
One at a Ouija Board
Every yell is double,
or is that your echo
echoing commonsense
back to you
from the letters,
stylistic codes
embedded
in love's hemispheres?
Thought isn't plastic,
only the soul, whiplashed
in past saturated traumas.
Mud and swamp and swamp gas.
Comely and codified
like the orbs of Brown Mountain.
Now, will we take our lover,
horrified by our lack of candor
or cordiality or even a dish
of the common thriftiness,
before we fought back
with tupperware planchette,
smashed to one side of the room
as the madame of the house's
cat rubs her paws clean
of any late morning fishiness?
You can find anything for a bargain
that's not love. Why not take a thin
piece of wood distributed by a toy company
for granted it's got moxie?
What price would you not pay
for any yokel's book of wisdom?
Besides, this your shadow is no devil
you know. Not the manchurian advocate
whispering between the bars of nineteen-fourteen.
Possession is immanent, the very self
made a subject through objectification.
Is it the sound of the family jewels clinking?
(A chemical marriage on the rocks.)
Every cell is double, you and the devil
you know and that inmate you don't.
Child of inheritance.
Precious memory speaking through you
in obscuring forked vocals.
Who needs a medium when you have
a solitary hour with a boardgame?
Life being what it is, a who
said what category,
expectations are both
overwhelming and slim,
not unlike the subject
of one's desire.
One being an understatement,
counterpoint to the royal we,
thrones and virtues,
viceroy and butler of Hell.
Drude both dry and dreary.
Who but everyone fishes
over the kitchen table
under a lamp
unshadowing the white
chipped walls,
the same dry directness
of childhood empty of
crowded references to experience?
The focus is flat, animated
with characters still but shattering
attention from the faded paintjob,
eclipsing moon and sun and all
numbers you've forgotten
replaced with faces, situations,
occasional trees not neatly as bored.
Time is the reunion of bottle, breast,
first speech, steps recorded
the way greetings and endings sadly are not
as the selfsame love floats in marinal occupation,
and kittens dream their own fishbowls.
Every yell is double,
or is that your echo
echoing commonsense
back to you
from the letters,
stylistic codes
embedded
in love's hemispheres?
Thought isn't plastic,
only the soul, whiplashed
in past saturated traumas.
Mud and swamp and swamp gas.
Comely and codified
like the orbs of Brown Mountain.
Now, will we take our lover,
horrified by our lack of candor
or cordiality or even a dish
of the common thriftiness,
before we fought back
with tupperware planchette,
smashed to one side of the room
as the madame of the house's
cat rubs her paws clean
of any late morning fishiness?
You can find anything for a bargain
that's not love. Why not take a thin
piece of wood distributed by a toy company
for granted it's got moxie?
What price would you not pay
for any yokel's book of wisdom?
Besides, this your shadow is no devil
you know. Not the manchurian advocate
whispering between the bars of nineteen-fourteen.
Possession is immanent, the very self
made a subject through objectification.
Is it the sound of the family jewels clinking?
(A chemical marriage on the rocks.)
Every cell is double, you and the devil
you know and that inmate you don't.
Child of inheritance.
Precious memory speaking through you
in obscuring forked vocals.
Who needs a medium when you have
a solitary hour with a boardgame?
Life being what it is, a who
said what category,
expectations are both
overwhelming and slim,
not unlike the subject
of one's desire.
One being an understatement,
counterpoint to the royal we,
thrones and virtues,
viceroy and butler of Hell.
Drude both dry and dreary.
Who but everyone fishes
over the kitchen table
under a lamp
unshadowing the white
chipped walls,
the same dry directness
of childhood empty of
crowded references to experience?
The focus is flat, animated
with characters still but shattering
attention from the faded paintjob,
eclipsing moon and sun and all
numbers you've forgotten
replaced with faces, situations,
occasional trees not neatly as bored.
Time is the reunion of bottle, breast,
first speech, steps recorded
the way greetings and endings sadly are not
as the selfsame love floats in marinal occupation,
and kittens dream their own fishbowls.