I just got these… sorrow pants on…
as an ascii kitten in the lasso of tiresome
attachment, a fever inside the EZ-pawn
coconut of “social parity” so that I want
to go again to the beach. O Daisy of
Gory Insouciance, give me some
compliments, for I am prettier
than that girl with insufficient space
between nose and upper lip. Grace juices
shrewishly the supposed pubescent bodies
of animated classical music babies. I’m not really
into things “fading” or the “bendability”
of mind-boggling “progress,” its
profoundly colorectal fluid tossing.
The Jewish bride circles her husband
seven times, to show she will protect
him while he reads books. The cyclones
starshipped grandiloquently then are not (then)
the spooky nudists of my will. Problems
shall surely jingle, silenced by the shabbiness
of unwooded rejections, inferring their pirogi
from what is quickly einsteinian
by shamble. I do believe in marriage,
its solemnity, the smell of caves,
the nearby (unwedded) albino crocodiles.
Of this I can sob masterfully,
loftily, coherently soured, all mushy
with the birdsong of the mind.
She (Rachel) asked why I have to write love
poems, and what about ideas…
but isn’t love an idea? The
idea? Deliciousnessing? First:
the cessation of oestrus. Then, its waxy-
tortuous crystals, forming homes around
dependent young, or surrogate
dependent young such as Nemo
and Dante… sebaceous watercolor
hopes stewed in a nonexempt golden
junk, an ungual kinescope swooshing
in a metaphorically barebacked
toughness. How to routinely
badger myself in the unfrosted
careerism of thrum? My husband’s
junk, harmfully collapsible. My husband’s
birthday, filled with the sweetish
dreamings of polysnthetic mythicized
dogs. Incurvate as kismet, uninstructively
meaningful, leathered by mistakes, tensely
deep-seated. I give myself fair warning.
Free of him. Free of her. Swallows’ wings
around a looming breast, why want what
one wants? Fake freedom of hummingbirds,
universal music all over my hippie
headband. What is eruditely unexcitable
can sit mussy on the variations of these
banal astonishments: “The Promise Breakers.”
Eternal reproach of rotated to soaked.
Eternal reproach of aromatic rust-colored
bodies. Eternal reproach of quintillionths
of fear images. Medications are not
dogfights. Eternal reproach of auric
blathering lustfully quantifiable truth
serums. Uncivilly that I am. Eternal
reproaches that are not adoptive, as
pink-purple smocks or brazen-faced
antiquarian raptures. We should
ptyalize the doors as unassailably
unstirred ghostfish, the ghost in the
apartment, shells of shapes, shells
of sounds, shells of smells. Noncolumned
it is inexpressible, and it quilts
the petty cactus of doubtful imaginings.
Its enchanted runch. Eternal reproach
of these nonmodern verse sardonics:
they slaver on the looming irreality
of the señorita, smashed as from
a sheika or hajj or cygnus. I suppose
I am the chick of the clunky hindfoots,
diabolizing tamarillos and pennywhistles
with fancily confusing tunes. I do believe
in marriage, its amaranthine blubber.
What can you hydraulically have?
There is a thorn tree India. Like
a truth serum. How not to fear images
of soapy bodies’ riddles? We should
ptyalize the doors. Eternal reproach
of a conscientiously belittling buffalo
wallowing in the montmartre of its
flightiness. It is Sumatran by finiteness:
marriage, I mean. The oddballs of ringleader
whining. Her feet smelling in those rubber
boots as she waits for the lipgloss. Patchily
again I have the cactus of imagining,
polymerizing the psychotropic seed-time
of a plane-polarized organza. The high-tech
viridity of self loving. The bird-hipped
dinosaurs of marriage – we manfully research
our skin. A hollow pianissimo, marriage’s
iridescent spareribs, precedently retroflexed.
The mysterious chatter of the lions. Tired
of men and their alphabets. He wallows
in the grandest blindspot. Chock. Fracture.
Weblike. Tight. The mesmerizer is not
punitively crimson. We were stonelike
and licensed as retrievable doves,
puckishly justifying vermillion
songs-as-gadgets in the cool midnight.
The subtreasuries of our minds husked
heavenwards as hollow pianissimos;
I was the cloven-footed schoolmarm
(many-chambered droop loss slave)
unswayed by the WILL of those
off-putting bodies, their ordinariness
and lustfully quantifiable bunts.
Final rule: can you actually have the
maladjusted rhinal pup? Patchily
I despise the deliciously prognathous
slaughterers, immunized from heart
to heart. This womanly motorized
scholastic body. It is a kind of vaginitis
of the mind. We should ptyalize
the doors, and grapple, notwithstanding.
Snail-like, they were…
psychotropic. Indeed: there is
a kind of thorn tree India in them.
In this nearsighted doubtful opinion.
Otohime 
You stun.
What an astonishingly fabulous poem, Nada! You're the best . . .
Joe