Recline upon bird down, tightening loopholes, feeling a touch of the artist

in the middle of the night—palaver &
slaver to mark the occasion of our first impudent glare, everything flared

tricked out like seasonal cues & slashes in fabric stuffed under coat

rushing through alarm with a genteel corner of your dripping image
Read: the double helix hologram on rear license plate stalks is the only real thing

          in this freaking place
Reach across arm rest when the tympanum is being retuned & tenderly clutch the

ineffable junk of the significant—okay, now who does not have a partner

for this exercise—your musical bust should be turning and grinning
Run, run into frozen sea of grey square with flopping image in arms &

draw continual comparisons to that fishy petroglyph before you can

dredge up the food that is life and so on
Wait for one thousand and three eternities. Wait, I said not to interrupt
Read: the double helix hologram on rear license plate stalks is the only real thing

          in this freaking place
Remove your things & find the bird down in the dark & indulge in the shock

gathering static at the first cold snap—slapping flesh & smacking that idiocy

forming in the puddle of a gormless face, then stiffening into muddle
Tread beyond regime & routine toward that frigid grey sea & perfectly striking

wait in the cold until you freeze into sensuous folds of marble—wait, wait, you

leave a smouldering hole of light in the clouds
Bite the fourth character in line & then behind that tricked out longhouse

offer compensation that is two hundred blankets inside a canoe then

tweak the hidden rebellion beneath your thawing folds of marble
Read: the double helix hologram on rear license plate stalks is the only real thing

          in this freaking place
Break any heart that lacks the subsistence of root vegetables &

bury it at sea, or in the choppy grey square during a squall then

tell me this is not happening upon the squawking bird down