Keep your hands for yourself
in a White Owl box, off
with the lyre's head. The fay queen
of neon is dead. Her pipers
on the rocks, quite a surprise.
Post mortem she's got Nobody
where he wants him, a brilliant
conversationalist & so much more
pleasant like this O he cries
when the rain gets in his eyes
& blasts the sleepers from his still
lids. Observe the wandering
clouds, each with a thin inner
quicksilver lining, headless
hatters are no friends at all. She
sings for his growing
hair, soon to be swung
like a Polaroid, votive flame
for his filthy mouth &
gargled serpent tongue forking
at the terminus. No more
bungling terms of engagement,
Nobody’s rage became a flickering,
fickle louse tickling lightly
across lips. Cryogenic pride has placed
him in Café Maenad’s foyer,
lungs a pumping, lumpen shuffle: Sirius
to Sirius, poltergeist to lodestar.
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