glasses of sand slipping to unseen warbles

unable to sleep the first day in my new glasses
having fought with my mom a useless weanling attempting to change the boob

i troll the news online and leave gray masses
when once i'd be deep in a notebook and minceing garlic out of verbs too tepid

to resign, open the realms of neruda as my friends travel chile and
i am cold though it is because i have a big house and love

drafts thru amaze to lock nest in spider eggs we won't hatch
the submarine intelligence floating over speckled whims

as a gift to relevance a tossed category rolls out his equator
my parents damned in our heavens to consign what was with now

if darned the sock still trails a spindle attached if pricked then
blood casts a sorry spell unable to remedy the sad clog of drained wisdom

letting marsh peoples become desert relics unlikely to find shelfspace
in magazines littering the recycle bins of doctors

hooked on mars and all the baggage of the worthless singers
piped in to redact god from her gold

-en sleepers find their contacts chopped in ceiling fans, journalists are
subpoenaed for their headwaters and canoes are loaded with drowned dogs

as one makes for the margins with a frying pan to sizzle the velvet tryst
of a spanked louse too damaged to remove his halo

for the sake or for snake's shock of rare obedience in telling vivid splendour
regaining momentum by stilling all around him

fetching premium dice with sideless corners and an alley of allied cheats
with portents of their own gables meant to protect in the event of

rash birth heaves, leaving one flattened on a hardeharhar comicship
smeared with the juice of a history one would dehydrate to a dust of why

ever singe if the fire has no truth, why riddle the electron with lassoed coordinates
if the refill cup has a value only to aborigines who've never seen a proton

in cash we allow arguments to fester their shoddy change for it
seems real and for that a meal is summoned into which one dips her spice

feeling for the bottom of a night without patience to bloom
holy in the silver quiet of banging white radio fuzz

wishing i were neruda on a diet of riversongs and skies full of freaked stars
red as the heat of a crushed people

into which famous walks are cemented in dinosaur land more pregnant than time's
aborted log, more solitary than wishes full and rapid as bouncing

jars the way one is interpreted and oxygen turns us to botulism
fetid and unmistakeable in solemn squirts across the buns of lunch

that need no introduction for the jockey has ridden
a track not a planet and foul thoughts ball across the squaredanced inca knife

not worried with heaves of import for taxless gestures remain pure
unless laden with mothy sweaters in chapter none

we'd attempt translation with a cold nose and a bottle of napkins
humming sold windows onto a plateau that seeks and stretches plenty hot

under the iron and unable to slur
the bow scratches and scratches and the door wants in so we cat around

the empty place where sleep was meant to thrive
inbetween the brows where new glasses have a hovel and a half