Doseone Terror Fabulous
John Wolf,
You are no Robin.
And, of recent events, certain things have come to light.
The way I played buoy in the dark bag for my belongings
And, for the dark bag shines.
A modest proposal on bones elapsing toward a running mirror's open mouth
Or at the swallowed black version of a hotel room bent inside the off-trap of its bowed-out TV screen.
The bag allows, animates again, and extracts its silvered still.
This time, it's a kicked-over cactus
Full with raven's eggs, dried bees, and a cherry on top
Backed by grey sky and ball pits stretching off in to the distance.
It has become dead-cat-clear:
I strap no gat to bring the sun back,
Casting hats with all my heart at gravity.
Why, it's become muscle-cat-clear:
A staunch near to the knuckle.
Today, I caught the mirror stalling.
It cast me with a blur face
Like that of suspects being led in custody to questioning.
Will you constantly ring a small gold bell with the pulled blade of a teaspoon for the rest of your life?
Even from the pretty pith of your turned-around eye,
I think one ear's gone rot
And the other's clogged with your spilled seed and lucid marrow in a crust.
Caught,
On occasion,
Cold-eyed
Selling discs to the squares.
Put out in mirror only
While the trees ring.
