Poppycock June/July 2014 - Page 36

digitus secundus manus like you, I go too it just flowers atop our heads him as an avatar as a person so speak for he so hyperbolic and unwinding he so gargantuan not filigree not sumptuous but moribund as a dynamo or imago him sensically perturbed out of unconscious he sings like a squeeze dreams a dream of historically correct alchemy it’s a miracle machine, the thing we’ve been given so clap your hands! Sing! turn your iron over be not ashamed to juxtapose the ossified phalanges, to scream the memories broken and it is within the reel of gust that the lemon swings her rind, within the darkest night that the nocturnal calculus orbits it is of the most profound sound sidereal and him a system of aberrations the digitus secundus manus, but he so lie the metacarpals, a stasis of alcoholism the incunabula of august the annulus, stevie Oh my darling Lysander, Tell how you hankered, How you conquered, loved, Commanded. Tell how much Pain is unwound & how The river Styx ever circles, Flowing soberly throughout Time. Weave a seminal tapestry for truth, Centuries beyond your grave— Tell of the Aegean littoral, Your balls in your hand dancing, Your flesh opening upon every event horizon, Upon every single sea, my liege Just like me You are one chrysanthemum away from a bouquet— You are one tiny heart kept from the world yet dying— 36