why do crazy people always have luggage?
where are they going with so much nothing?
why can't i find that place, and where is my luggage?
how do mountains wear appalling little so unabashed?
where are they going with so much nothing?
why make my delirium look terrestrial when Jove’s pissed?
why parse yellow yarn for cage-free, locally-grown guerillaknitters?
where are they going with so much nothing?
how to stretch jejunely over trees like turtlenecks and tunics?
what engine belch to piston ratio blathering, Exude Acceleration!?
where are they going with so much nothing?
where millions of civilians say, Back Door!, without seeming Borg?
where wattage of queries somewhat supersedes your paygrade?
where are they going with so much nothing?
how interlocutoring towards “sticking” barks Brownian?
how your amperes functioned through the Great Bombardment of Acumen?
where are they going with so much nothing?
were I not an atrocious apology from an excited orbit of self-gravity?
where are they going with so much nothing?
how protoplanets wake rage at dangerous decibels of the Mach gauge?
where are they going with so much nothing?
*Portions of this poem were inspired by the Wikipedia article on "Planetesimals". Click here to access the article and support Wikipedia.
Spicaresque:
A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
FANATICAL, FANATICODE, FANATIQUILL
The young lady said, your hair,
may I touch it? And I obliged, sort
of swan in an injured, curtsied bow.
She pawed and graded my exquisite locks
and confessed the purse my hair
could fetch in the black markets of the world.
I had been summoned to slay mawfuckers
with my pizazzy Powerpoint for Playas’
and now, like a genie, I could not be rebottled.
The thought of follicle bazaars in Tangiers
or the Sarajaven mob trafficking my now
very valuable head ricocheted in my synapses tanks.
I had been thinking of nothing lucrative at all, nothing
like pure poetry strawberries as large as the heads of Shih Tzus
or contraband submarines forged in the jungles of Colombia.
I had been thinking that I don’t listen to Otis Redding enough
that I take too many scalding showers and don’t leave my hair
the chance to fume the bouquet of my wholly singular odor.
And now I am finally thinking of the young lady, her fingers
comb the epicenter of my vanity, they graze my thick head
my dull, oaken dome from which spectacular beauty glows.
may I touch it? And I obliged, sort
of swan in an injured, curtsied bow.
She pawed and graded my exquisite locks
and confessed the purse my hair
could fetch in the black markets of the world.
I had been summoned to slay mawfuckers
with my pizazzy Powerpoint for Playas’
and now, like a genie, I could not be rebottled.
The thought of follicle bazaars in Tangiers
or the Sarajaven mob trafficking my now
very valuable head ricocheted in my synapses tanks.
I had been thinking of nothing lucrative at all, nothing
like pure poetry strawberries as large as the heads of Shih Tzus
or contraband submarines forged in the jungles of Colombia.
I had been thinking that I don’t listen to Otis Redding enough
that I take too many scalding showers and don’t leave my hair
the chance to fume the bouquet of my wholly singular odor.
And now I am finally thinking of the young lady, her fingers
comb the epicenter of my vanity, they graze my thick head
my dull, oaken dome from which spectacular beauty glows.
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