My liquor opens after a warm-up
by Scott Thompson, my quote unquoting ex-enthusiasm
and frequent sufferer of U.S. wobblers. (Here is so much rot,
even gowns and long hair don’t do a favor.)
When he speaks it’s not bells
for pearl-gloved Elizabeth; rather he sips
his argot which bubbling on my carpet maps a practiced
Picard, an inter-planetary trek across my mood.
Swatting locked objects, he won’t quit until they let themselves lash by eye
lash out. I think he’s topping. With grace rare
outside flames, his arched brow and balmoral vamp
as I’ve heard it whispered between the fitting stalls where men
grow hooves and act upon their nature. To hell
with taps if you’re not a conscripted sailor drunk
by the ocean. Samuel Morse was cocaine-
dependent, check the tax returns. Not that he’s scared.
He’ll sing to an emptied floor. But he’s read enough.
The language sacred can’t be hidden longer.
It’s worth more than a soul can flourish.
Effects of Polonium
gay eagerly swinging open her brass mouth
full of malt I wanted a vacation from status
using the pot still she’s kurt cobain an extra
s a krill drifts gender-breaking waves as punk
sinks from drugs whale watching is too a cult
the lemonade so sour and who says hey stop
non-theater sports and sitcoms about football
can fill the hour-long nylons that’s an improv
shot with grainy husband wife film which split
on rocks and reunited for children the end