An Affliction, Licking Its Wounds…
by Maurice Oliver
or try the mumbo jumbo of a breathing book
translated into the gingersnap of lemon-drop
luster which I sometimes compare to an eye
spade of trembling sausage or a power step
of seascape chops to babysit in the rain or
some sloth of tight-lipped yo-yo worth vibrating
until this cocktail party wings its window of jelly
jars intent on blanking a blue horizon dressed in
highfalutin violin strings that promise to shrink
a Latin mass or even worse to card catalog
every hectic hysteric pusillanimity you can sniff
from a decanter bottle lightly sprinkled and
wondering how long it’ll take to figure out that it’s
perfume and not cognac but she ignores my
warning and drinks it anyway.
February 10th, 2008 at 10:57 am
Yip a bit abstract and this is where poetry should be.
Fuck all that rhyming shight.
Brilliant…
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