from AT THE MUSARIUM
[22301 – 22400]
South-south-east of the Peloponnese
amid a blabber of sidereal vociferation,
embosomed in unconvincing celluloid,
their portmanteaus ablative with attar
& hashish, eyeless Gilgamesh & his
humorous tactician, Simone, still wobbly
from parturition, decamp. Their parlous
rendition is but a panoramic euphemism,
their apocalyptic penthouse a tinder-box
of hornblende metallurgy blanketed
by a furor of fisticuffs. “Why cobblers?
Why a hawker & a saddler? Why a biologist?
Why the rolling-pin? Why the sexless
misanthropic slyness of this laminated ibis?”
[22601 – 22700]
Let’s snooze upon the lavishness of a
well-read wagonette, whose circum-
navigation of orphanages abates
dispiriting quick-tempered quicklime,
& croon to ourselves as we go bareback
with a wineglass of brassy manioc
along a mussel-smelly swath of Sinhalese
coastline where the well-tempered silkworm
within its half-yearly camouflage might
yet disintegrate Tehran. We hoed once,
as now we hone, our homologous
soma not a by-product, not an ogress,
but our adoptive farrago, even
here, at the expiry of this trans-
continental cul-de-sac.
[22801 – 22900]
Roebuck wiggle, starfish tipple
& creel unsure of their mauser
oscillate circumspectly one self-sustaining
mis-step from trefoil immolation. But
despite the ides of reliquary, Browning
was no quitter. His effortless yoga
therapeutics intermingle, his
harum-scarum tornadoes reanimate
as far as westernmost Bucharest,
its wholeness disgorged of electromotive
abnormality—unlike the basso
sirocco amigo who fester
despondently with chiaroscuro
neurosis.
Frirst published: Voices Literary Magazine (2025-24). 40-41. Print.
At the Musarium 