Saturday, February 26, 2011

Sacred Desert

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the monsters of parallax
are never clearly understood
though they walk about in costume
twitching in finery
they come to rest on inadvertent teeth
they reveal tomorrow with
bogus attention, they hear brains
calling from alleys and believe them
to be a hoax
they hope for numbers
to hide the effect of
all those misplaced syllables
they devise fingers from lilies
and make tribal hats
which they will never wear.
their eyes hear
mournful music
which warns them:


your skull dislikes your throat
so you think about taking a gun to it.
your ass is fat from bread and oxygen
the layer of suggestion
leaves nothing to be wallowed in
Egypt bumps in the night
our rest is undisturbed

1 comment:

Richard Ewing said...

Illogical space?
I prefer to see the oboist as a small puppet under the auspices of the parasol person who keeps his left hand free for glad~handing, while showing him off to the public hooked on the parasol handle crook.