The Dynasty of Matter: It's You, Kid.

my companion is the blue breasted lady on the wall

with acrylic

cells and soul.

 

my composition?                                      

a red lentil breakfast porridge with flat fridge frost taste

like mold like

b flat. nutrients.

 

nutrients?

a verbose way to escape the white carriage kart--snort tumeric, sing psalms! listen to

ella, otis, cooke, soft please. soft. soft.

 

softly when you

carry your head, and fortitude as you

staple your papers to your eyebrows

 

and fortitude when you procreate, breathless, under our nation’s flag,

inseminated directly after labor,

"again, more, women, more, you are special" 

hear that?

Apache-Zulu-Mongolian love songs--endless djembe, screech, broken skin, hyde. a concept?

(let’s sew up the psycho-spiritual hymen!)

 

I wept for it,

stirring my coffee cream this morning.

 
In that corner over there? a four-string dulcimer from Wisconsin, 

my dearest companion: taught and her strands bust easy,

a good little mirror with the same

horoscope.

 

she’ll compose what she wants of me, I’ll throw an aria back, a dumb little feminine “huhmm”

and she’ll interpret me and I’ll bite my nails and say

“I look too ugly in that key, half step down up left west north, it’s better for my voice, reverb, scratch it, never mind”

purity, you schmuck,
go fix a conspiracy with your creative

paranoia.

 

the modality of mess is mutable.

 

you sometimes have yourself? or

maybe a spoon to know your teeth clanking,

maybe that cap on your head to know your oily follicles’ odors.

 

your pile of dishes are sizing you up, squid. 

your cologne loves you, yet 

you end up marrying the picture frames, 

the fern, 

the bottle of allergy pills, 

not the Swede. 

the calcified canine feces in your yard? 
your own crystal ball!

that suburban drone when you're walking down the street in some type 
of atrophic state? 
man... that's it, it, it, and it.
 
now,
relax about "identities", pale face.

me?

I’d ask myself who I am,

but the blue lady sold for five hundred and

I dropped the dulcimer on my way to the bar's

open mic and
I can’t find my papers? 

bummer.

I'll consult the raggedy bra I tossed off last night, 

sleeping on my chair,

so beige, so wise. 

Reviews

[Shy Joe]

"a red lentil breakfast porridge with flat fridge frost taste"
You my friend are are an excellent word warrior. Off the wall madness, but highly entertaining.

Great poem. Thanks for sharing.

[Sir Drift & Mr. Pulse]

And so is the do and there goes the dont, what twirled ideas come jumping from the chair, reverb or echo, sustain or arpeggio. What are the things around? Matter? Just a pile of specs glued together.

[luna rose]

spot on, you spontaneous equation of atoms!