Gentlemen Take Polaroids


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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