scene is as usual a car struggling uphill in the pink rain
that begins unaccountably to wail Oh she says this rain
it clogs up my belly and puts out monsters my driving
would suffer less were it not for no monsters little like
this they are in their squirming he says your driving is
like your mother's parrot uninteresting and bald and
it goes nowhere a parrot maybe a parakeet a big one
I heard bit off the whole oar of a cat that stuck in its
differentiated tissue I'm not in any way
edgy she says I am relaxed now
why would you say that the light falters on hillsides in
late afternoon without even a cloud maybe it is mystic
light you speak of in your parrothood of which I must
remind you I know nothing but look he cries now all
absolved another stalling of this vehicle will bring us
together and collapse both our tents into the same ditch
from which if I remember you came up shining last
time last time there she was hopping one legged still
squawking of her sofa after the bombing after the milk
spilt all over her polished bloody doorstep after that
just the same anyway her life on her knees by a door
step asking for sheen of a clutch slipping there's almost
nothing left to be said beyond the buckling up in the grass
years after school but back there too like everything was
ready knees and ankles all just ready for the slippage
I know you never liked her just because she said porridge
as pourage and you thought it was nasty like seepage
well so it was if you ever tasted it as she said it now
we will need to squawk for ourselves in the cuttlefish
the sun itself roaring like a one-legged spider it's late
fucking late late all of it a stuffed dead thing still ticking
itself out through the long pink pourage but you you just
like the sound of your own voice yes I do because it's the
only one I can hear even when it ticks out of your mouth
he says she says if you hear zebras in wednesday streets
no need at all to think of Texas this waving anyway is a
one thousand year umbrella
it rains frogs
dearly
.
.
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