Hey whatsis ur name? Nemo.
Speaks Latin, that kachina doll.
Envisions a sci-fi gizmo
for switching fictional mutants
into the iridescence mode.
Wears a mother-of-pearl crucifix
around her neck as a witness
of doubt. Can DNA-origami
with Zig-Zag papers. The daemons
jubilant, the demi- and hemi-gods
exultant in a 7000-year-old
ziggurat. Happy quizzicals at
Rock ‘n Roll High School!
Happy testicles, too. A wallflower
at the band-room orgy gazed into
the chlorinated depths of her shoes
until an epiphany jolted her
out of her stupor. Sanctity,
she intuited, is a sealskin
slicker of holiness you wear
under your skin, where the tumor
has grown so large it has
gravity and inertia. The latter
may reflect an avoidance-avoidance
complex. Just between the black
and white spiders, your dolphin
fandango is the tits! And devoid of
ego fusion reactions that necessitate
the existence of a supernatural dimension
beyond synesthetic hallucinations.
Thanks awfully, but you needn’t
do a Travis Bickle on your inner
miscreants in order to ennoble
your character. Just sanctify
your severance from the astral
vehicle, the flivver of fools
careering over frost-hoarfields
and landing on a treeless gibber
plain where fools gibber
in robotspeak. In a murmurous loggia
I encounter all the cats from my
chiaroscuro coffee-and-cream dream
of a locomotive made of water
splattering against a vast wall.
Happy the cat who feareth death by
the waters of Babylon. Bloody
and wimple the nimbus with all
the bellows screeching and all
the sleepwalkers torn and all
the gatecrasher mains bursting.
A keen ear for oldsterspeak
is a dominant trait, like brindle.
No cream, please; I drink it black.
And hot, of course. The level of
recidivism among black releasees
spiked due to such factors as
El Niño phenomena transmuting
a false lead into fool’s gold.
Hey whatsisface, don't accuse
me of languishing in a perceptual
rut. I know which side of my bread
the mold is always greener on. I see
the Freudian slip beneath the demi-
stitched hem. It is Maxwell's
famous daemon superimposed on
the random process of mutation.
It is Maxwell’s silver hammer
leaving an indentation the circumference
of a moon crater in my skull.
A morphous zone where nothing
can and damn well better happen.