Chiffon Knuckles Crying Over Spilt Milk

Pocketfuls of poppies: popping. 
In scents of. Barley and rye.
The lonely will burrow,
nails contorted into calcite shovels with surprise soil-fillings,
revealing nothing. But
two clenched lace-embrodiered fists,
trying to hold
their few remaining manic memories,
fraying along their barnacled edges.
Expectations held in static silence,
Words falling upwards through white picket fences.
Where we could.
Contain.
Them.
Unable to hold back the reigns of impulsivity,
I asked if you knew what this meant.
(To me.)

Monarch monastery statues atop silver-lineless floor cushions of condensation,
Spewing occidental oxymorons like acid rain
along the tight-rope cracks between.
Curious and. Cemented selves.
In atmospheric realms of textile insecurity,
wrapping newspaper-mache casts around one limb
while breaking the next.

We felt ourselves fall. into. a. 
Rimbaud Romance,
wrapping ourselves around
Borealis beauties. Of susceptibility.
Watching our forgotten imagined imageries of

butterfly wings soaring off of tramp stamps to perch on our ulcered stomachs

of flour mills and powdered sugar snowflakes--

We were marauded marionettes watching them
juxtapose themselves
on our current hand-held handicaps,

waxing and waning through moon phases

of romanticism and intellectualism,
Asking us if we knew what this meant.

And we were both Little Red Riding hood,
crying “OH, WHAT BIG EYES YOU HAVE!”
As we gazed unto erroneous eyelids propping themselves open atop cellophane-topped toothpicks, framing
Irises stop-motion trained to believe beyond what was seen.
There was a sadness there,
on the fingertips within our brain fissures,
it was Van-Gogh-gilded-Groundhog’s day every other day,
and we would. cease. our synchronized breath
until we knew if today would be. Lackluster lived.
By self. 
Or shadow.

WHAT BIG EYES YOU HAVE MY DEAR,

WHY DON'T YOU REVERSE AVERT THEM AND LOOK BACK INTO MINE MY DEAR!

BUT DON'T YOU WORRY MY DEAR,

My identity won't mimic the serpent-haired succubus:

I WON'T MAKE A STONE MAN OUT OF YOU MY DEAR!

I'm no Medusa,

BUT I'LL SURELY TURN YOU INTO PARCHMENT

THAT WILL DIGITALIZE ITSELF INTO RESURRECTED DREAMS ON PORTABLE SCREENS,

MY DEAR.

Pocketfuls of poppies: popping.
They were graveyard home-grown and missing our hands,
exploding like multi-colored mortars (that looked so much like our own hearts,)

blossoming 

along the border between your 

curious/cemented

self
in metronome melodies, 
ensuring you knew.
What this meant.
(To me.)
My dear Rimbaud romance;
There was nothing. More bewildering. or More beautiful,
encased in clenched fists:
our chiffon knuckles 

(no longer) crying 

over spilt milk.

Reviews

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

The imagery here was nothing short of incredible....
My my my....what could have been. You've outdone yourself this time.
Bravo!