a dangled androgynous it with pin-shoes
and coal finger-cape
a box for going
a tribe of wee thinkers with feathered
catching-spears
these things we eyelessly see
we bulbous black bulbs that
compose the sky
who write raspberry sonnets for forgetting
the it eyebrows for us a simple song
the box warps and suggests its door
the wee tribe shuffles left, then somewhat right
the feathers ruffle against our filmy skin
we bulbs do not commit to motion
in an eye-seeing sort of way
we sonnet serenely against a liquid scene
as pulsating exobiology does all the doings
and makes all the makings of the day
2 comments:
I think this is the best one. You lovingly dissect morphologies like a senile linguist, and throw standard syntactical considerations into the wind (who knew sonnet was a verb?). I just wanted to let you know I was working on something totally unrelated to anything else, and before I knew it, "fly this kite" was singing its way through my head. It's been stuck in my mental powerlines for the last hour or so. Thank you for the beautiful music.
we should have all gone to the bus terminal to write poems.
they are brilliance.
you have brilliant.
brillo of having you doings them.
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