Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Slants




Vines
procumbent, primal,
pale.

Scores
of blue cobras
(irradiant, purring,
sorting) in highland grass,
poised to descend,
overrun bulwarks.

(Alcoa. Coca-Cola.)

Vines
clamber over crumbling
mansions, stagnant swimming
pool blooms,
luminescent.

Tympani!
(harp...)
Piano chord...

She was
Party member,
via Milan:
articulate and
thorough and
feverish and
earnest. Above
all, earnest:
bed-headed, not coifed.

Bottle
green lacquered masque,
tarnished turbine,
weathered 
telephone
pole,
enameled pin...

Tailspin bandits babble
on and on,
on and on.
Pursed lips tipple
on and on,
on and on,
on and on...

Putting down pub's pale ale,
she sneered,
"He's an asshole."

Courtly quislings,
presiding a quad's
ceremony, 
cemeteries skirted.

No longer
the quaint summer idyll of 
lake, Apollonian ideal
and badminton.

"Who cares
about Virginia?"

Ants sleep
Persian sleep,
thrive in
a collective One.

"I grew weary, the 
red-faced drunks,
bellowing, repetitive."

Licorice and sherry
honeybee
rustles, spies suns.

Cut
the tether, float 
free
and distant.

Drift. Go on...
Marx & Lenin just might approve.

Avanti!

To the ramparts! Irradiant! 

Avanti!