new felt-tip pens, the splurge
of berry light coloursplashing
in windowdrops, beercans exploding
and revealing the halo of
non-corporate body-rocking;
excuse the mess in my head:
I am morphic, straining to sieve
all pertinents bits of
information
—stream stream stream—
and mindhunt the 100 shot club
looking for reason
and popcorn to soothe
the familiar smells
of mama's cooking,
daddy's bacon
coming home
to please the family
like I knew that you
would figure it all out, sonnet-like;
the urge is rain and snow
upon the mantel-top
of spiral Maori designs:
mine's the Manaia,
a phoenix taniwha
protective spirit, emulating
the waves that crash over,
destroying the impure people,
the ones who don't listen
to the stream stream stream
and we dreamweave over.
the return, boondocks
and sailors queueing, screaming
for disk two, the episode
before the trilogy, the key turn
of blue, of green phone-rings,
each power socket blended
in a recipe
bound
for Narnia.
remember reading that
and wondering how a wardrobe
could fit as a nexus portal
to another world, another place
where we could all forget
instead of wondering
how much milk we have left;
it's at least two-eighty
for a two litre bottle,
at the most a twenty note
for everything needed
before the world erupts
in flame, the 2012 end
of this epoch according
to those crazy
astrologically-tainted
Mayans
but hell, I believe them,
I know this place is surging;
it's a connection sundered,
a bluebottle
on the beach
squashed flat
like
like
stream stream streams
streaming data, impersonal
ambiguous stripshows
but don't get depressed,
we all know.
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