The ostrich and hyena pull my plow
over a seething landscape
dripping with the blood of fresh petunias,
the amber fluid from the otter’s lobe.
Not yoked;
they would not tolerate
such slivered fasts
and monkish dripping eyes.
They ran through the sea of hands,
applauding, pickled fingers,
aureoles of all the flying cats
with purple tongues entangled
in the silver web
of conundrum.
I never sought to turn
such fertile wonder
into grey and ebbing fossils
clicking softly through the tepid afternoon.
What dreams may come
will never be for corpses
or the dreary ghosts
who wail and whine
the losses of pathetic mice.
Indeed, we dance as in the limpid wine
of majestic octopi
who squirt serial intoxication
through the eyes of grand delinquents,
those whose quaking crimes
send the quivering teeth of sharks
into the entrails of a cop.
What serial delights!
A feast upon the squirming tentacles of joy,
a wild debauch
that flows majestic
like the river of mad eyes,
the febrile horn of otter heat
and my own beloved owl’s libido.
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