“The true mystery of the world is the visible.” – Oscar Wilde
Medieval lunch box chums sprinkle salt on shams,
Yielding to tramlines that run up the backs of stockings.
Pronghorn antelope burst apart in a shower of springs
Amid the reeds that line the shower stalls.
Spice up the spruce shoots in the robot ovens.
Slide down the smooth stone chutes
Where anthropomorphic men man flavor stations,
Overclocking the blue plasma,
Running the wrongheaded space weirdos
Down the Nazca flumes and out past the shame bunkers.
I walked the points put down in the desert to describe the shear stress,
Stepping on the rubber mat where the dinging opens doors.
Pelvic thrustbottles rattle in the dirtybit wind
And quarter tones and chipped eighths
Surge and shake the window in the tower,
Sorting prayers in piles behind the shutters.
Wake and float like thistledown and clock
Onto the collapsing…
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