Humans
debark at chock-a-chap clips, flexing anklet braces in serried lunges,
uniformed flanks merging into hellway aisles, mumbling coughs, metallic
lockstep jargon breathe oozing down empathic corridors, flooding the Tubal
Trapdoor’s vaulted region of the Unit Disc. Analytic continuation is granted to
all seekers, unconditioned passage to JFK-18’s quixotic boxcar realm of latter
gratis uberstereo, kinder-wonder-doughy body of migratory minions, given under
handedness to torqued matadors in arboreal dungeons, crabs not included.
Her
belt’s barking mules a minuet, in time with Baited Oven symphonics: “Kirov,
Lola; Deputy Commodore, Untied States; Lost Animals, Two Days Ago.”
Entry whir, whizzer of oblivion, deflecting cordoned consciousness, grafting pseudopod to worn hamstring juicer: “Came on, came on, Kirov 55748, cleared Lost Annulus, ship to silence.”
Entry whir, whizzer of oblivion, deflecting cordoned consciousness, grafting pseudopod to worn hamstring juicer: “Came on, came on, Kirov 55748, cleared Lost Annulus, ship to silence.”
Sequestered
science fuels in floating floors of florid quotations, empathizing with every
nude arrival, deriving all known and future well-wisher’s myriad dreams,
contained in simple vials of nutrient, carefully spilled over the anointed
forelocks of even the most meager. Warm, clear drops of simulated grain’s
lifeblood, lifted from undersea chasms, scepters of gravy toil, cisterns of
long-abandoned digs in the plains of dustiest Campania; merging with wayward
corpuscular collage, a million viscid traces, fledgling pride’s filched
canister. Anterior totems wing above the heads of bobbing converts, filling
lungs with aerosol belief, spawning generational tactics, guaranteeing futile
allegiance to the world’s laborious creed.
Down
tactile cramps, in textured crimson rows, deftly switched from tourists to
inductees, elbowing whey from lactose seams, skillfully shunted to proving
grunts and scolding taunts, flashed back into the very same transport on which
they’d arrived, flown by the likewise slaked and lubed Lola Kirov, now
ascending, intercontinental drift profile, heading whirl zone contrail
underflow, livery chest a stable luft aweigh.
I love this poem. The alliteration is striking without being repetitive, and the brilliant imagery flows through the poem without cluttering the diction. Instead, the imagery nearly creates the diction, as if beginning in darkness and illuminating the path of the poem forward, like a rising sun illuminating a room in the morning. Well done.
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