Up to her triceps in moisture wraps
Up to her triceps in moisture wraps
by Smokey Farris
Up to her triceps in moisture wraps
Spiraling hair snips, crash the face
Devastate the eyebrow lines.
Her dad is here, moreover, he has a six-pack.
The newborns are having a party
for their Jewish mother.
She dates a gay midshipman from Venezuela.
Who wears diapers to bed.
“The government will kill you,” He says.
For speaking aloud about prostitution
and identity theft.
Why is the government moving out?
Are we invited?
The government has a blimp fleet
With jet engines
And neutron information bombs
That can erase all the tracks
On your ipod!
While the “prez” slips slowly into a new body every minute
His disguise kit gives up.
He’s a sheep herder pigmy girl
one minute
and a swashbuckling Viking
the next.
On
Saturdays after listening to cartoons
he dresses up like one.
Which one depends on his mood.
He looks like Mel Gibson right now,
dressed as a pilot.
A gesture of silence
For the missing cut of steak
Digested whole
atop pictures of past dreams
under a puddle of milk
beneath puddles of oozy milk.
The oral grip of pups
extracts a diet from that of their milkmaid.
A mess of a poem that nevertheless cuts sharply through fatherhood, motherhood, government, and authorities in general; the theme maybe being we are all children, not innocently full of potential, just selfish and not grown up, which is why we’re taken advantage of by other self-serving juveniles with more power. The ending reminds me of Romulus and Remus suckling, on their way to fashioning a world-squandering civilization.