hey all, a couple occasional poems, kind of Englishy (in my mind anyway). The second is a swerve on Halsey's style. PM often wears a black t-shirt.
DREAM OF THE BLACK T-SHIRT
For P. Manson’s birthday
The t-shirt says: “I do not exist. I am not stainable.”
The soil has smutched it. Have you tasted the bag
of the bee? Oh so dark, so sweet is he,
and I am...making conversation easily with Peter Manson,
like a little nasturtium nasty tertiary shtum; he responds nodding
like son of flower whose poem was blown in on a hot rail,
a didact frown or flounce he metaguarded. I dream-said,
“If you cut her, you can drink Gala-Tea,” meaning poetry,
because she is “lovely and alive,” to turn wave-function
into wire fence and undulate the terms.
For A. Halsey’s birthday
A letter arrives, he sends it packing
tape worm uses up best syllabub
in gay misrule. Scylla breaks down
syllables and morphemes—
Ah, foam and contrail! Fumetime.