A FLUID BUTTERFLY

Consider a fluid butterfly,
a purple star that flitters through the night
upon the feet of porcupines
whose tarantella dance
eclipses both the sun and moon
when the oceans offer daydreams
to children who have sparks for eyes.
I watched this languid creature
spitting horseshoes at the sun
and turned its wings into a mask
that sang in harmonies as varied as
the contours of your face.
Its shape was like the twelfth dimension
of a hair that grew on the ass
of the most beautiful baboon.
And this is how I found the secret
that was dripping from the folds
that hid behind your undulating
earlobe

THE SPACES BETWEEN MORNINGS

The spaces between mornings are the lives of inter-galaxies of doom.
They wail like midnight winds chasing alabaster dogs across the sky.
I believe I saw them talking with a wombat made of amber
as the rose of attar danced upon a plate of sweet potatoes.
It was a feast of undiluted wisdom drunk with the symptoms of acute miosis.

SLIPPERY AS A PEACOCK

Slippery as a peacock
I went sliding down a mountain
of tears.
I had travelled through the sword fields
and gathered cocktails of ants and sheltered honeycomb.
My mother turned into a statue of cheese
and spritely wombats devoured her
before a collapse could say, "drown me in chocolate!"
A thunderstorm blew its bebop dirge
in celebration of this unsettled earthquake.
And of course, I went dancing in mad masquerades
while a hatter appealed to the stumbling of ice
in a tourniquet made on the moon.