The Satellites Sway

The Satellites Sway
by Shon
the satellites slowly drive past my attention
which is locked in the static key of the tiny ravines
that criss-cross blisters on palm sunday
as i crawl towards another beer
for repentence
old pieces of laundry turn up at a magic show
and fly away as doves
afterwards
backstage
i tackle the moustache in the tophat and steal his sleeves
but all i find is a few ochre coins and a dead pigeon
no socks
so i mow myself under a fog of manspray
and collide with the field of twinkle twinkle and
the stain on the satellite
looks like texas
but no one has the eyesight to tell for sure
so no one believes
long measures of breath
shy of the water bowl
where grapes drift on their backs
pretending to feel sad about the raisins
as they graze the stars for something ancient
to turn into
but the third gate is rusted shut
and armies of ants swell to defend it
from the wrinkle in the poets knuckle
i’ve been building fists out of sleepy pills
shoving them into the mouths of story book statues
who complain of gigantism
yet can’t lift higher than a pig’s knee
(napolean’s knee being an exception)
a dazzle of splintered jolt
strangles my ankles in shoots of static function
stumble stairs
crumble step and
drop into the seed well
where I’ll sleep
under the occasional shade of the beanstalk
that sways over the open cavity