glorious sticks shift, trending like bees out of orbit
Boom-Boxin’ Bosch Ascending to Empireun, [sic] the
by Cocteau
Now boarding. Okay,
Mammoth always faces away from the sights ahead
in subterranean situations as if reverse-zonking initiates,
nay, intoxicates baryons of tasing grace.
Hairy, wooly, like Florida orange juice-whirlpooled by
sombre, or sober, stick-shifts-of-glory, nor necessarily
four-on-the-floor/ like saying that Bloody Marys
and/or Screwdrivers are analogous-inert-systems
created by heart-meister Ben Carson and Babe Ruth
to deliver alcohol to the great unwashed.
Astringent. Hell, Mars needs women!
Trending, like a bee sting, like, like,
say, funerary ariae for dying swan[s], like
muons on fezBook shape-shifting to conceptions
of mystic trawlers cruising only the innerside of a
gin-ringed tyre in Astoria. Or not.
Amtrak, SKY RANGERs, RukeyserS &
or fiery aetnas of fascinatin’ rhythm calling
Oral Roberts home. STELLA! Darkside,
parkside, any kind-you-want-side/ it’s
still barcarolle to me.
Shane! To live in the innertubes
of those we love. Cucamonga,
Flagstaff. San Bernadino.
Hieronymous.
–mge
I’m instantly intrigued by the dual titles and the Sky Ranger dirigible pic. As a poet who seeks the lunatic fringe (succeeding sometimes), I am always in awe of Cocteau poems that blaze new trails with words, images, ideas, themes, flow, etc. It’s cutting edge stuff, and I enjoy the lacerations. I think Cocteau’s IQ must be 100 points higher than mine but I look up words and bask in his brainiac. Reading these sort of poems, I don’t try to make immediate sense out of it but read/reread and let thoughts come and go, and I observe my imagination which is delightful. Thx Cocteau!