That day | when the Man Dressed like a Forest
yodeled into the gash of a valley |
the rising echo no reply but
the semblance of his voice “which tragically
has neither eyes nor sense to register itself.”
First the ozone then the ocean
masticated Kim’s missile | the whole world
has gone ballistic. At risk of rousing ire |
in Kim’s mind he’s the revolutionary
flipping his rocket finger up the wall of sky |
toward the meddlers of the world’s affairs that want
him flayed & neutered “being a good boy— there there now.”
Instead of this it appears to me
more pertinent | “to go out & make friends
with a giraffe” | to set rags of tissue paper
alight & toss them into dark | written
on them | all our anxieties & phobias
quickly flaming into CO2 & vapour.
i must believe | only today
the 30th Nov 2017 | could be the day
on which these lines might be born | no other day
— while clouds range the blue spectrum
from over the sea | cramp grey | fixed about
the mountain | my mistakes accompanying.
Man: you unnerving parameter— “gob-shite!”
What would Dr. Z. Busner prescribe
for all these disembodied “gob-shites!”
with their idiolect scansion & negligence?
Google told me Topamax or Lamictal
but i would rather squeeze the juice
from the blue air
& feed it them.