Eclogue

 

 

           State Department-sponsored austauschschülerins gravitating

                            toward the innermost, syntactically-warped,

                                            clocks of Dresden.

                                         Dummy-like diplomatic

                                              mouthfuls of straight-A doll plastic,

                                                haughty and viral,

                                       meant only to reproduce

                                          war room tile, bone marrow the words

                                 "citoyen du (monde." Womb)

                      with chunks of broken Berlin Wall wrapped in

                          outdated maps—trade routes blue-blooded varicose

                                 veins, slow and fat. Shoo-be-dooby -doo

                                              to the haute-

                   

                                route Alps or deep south

                         surveillance mechanism—all explosions need ragtime

                    to enact some backward, joyous revenge.

                       To practice X took my countdown pen to (the half life

                              of neptunium) before "wir

                        waren," seen through the parabolic snow

                                  drift sketch on the next page--notes

                             from the electron scanning microscope ties orchid to

 

                          its pole with a dollar bill’s

                             red shift waves goodbye

                        to matter. Then climbed Goethe’s marble bust, overlooking

                                some subatomic, skull-fractured wilderness,

                       bombardment fucked ("you have

                    no accent"). Then bused back to our separate

                             geographic hinges. I imagine

                         something in the trees ticked to the metronome

                                  of our new smiths— genetically modified

                                      phrases, ticked down our drone eyes to cheeks,

                                                  bright nude and zoned-out, braids down

 to waist,  yodeling like the age,

                                                      reborn in its history of forgery.

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baroque

 

 

"Waves of Russian bots," on makeshift Cuban boats ask for my hand in skin-tone.

Grandiose invasion of spring Mongolians perestroika down the Asian steppe, disseminate

in floral digits, and April crept. Khan's genes ringtone Sephora where I buy an eyeliner called 

"Diva at Dawn." Was content. Maybe I drink so much coffee in the p.m. because I drink so much

vodka in the a.m. In Luanda, it cost sixteen dollars for an apple, in Abu Dhabi 

an outdated source eats horse. Mohawk sky in Dusseldorf does me good.

Glenn Beck in dugout canoe in the hood. Lana Del Rey with American flag, 

dick and bike. He looks up from his sandwich, says "alright."

Hitler! Bieber! The gold map!, sea-torn yet flowery, like a liver, overlaid 

on the foamy bot, transplant, topographic pirate in sinkhole of insecticide and Sriracha outside 

Orlando we ate kimchi, exchanged gelatinous-like substances, smoked pot went the day 

and when we left the shore, we were only washers of genetic material carrying records 

into the forensic tide of the three-dimensional Gulf of Mexico.

Sensei, what is the point of making this report? Bros at the LA Air Force Base 

gather round a piece brie like Christmas carols. One asks me. "Are you from 

Cleveland? I repeat, are you from Cleveland?" 

Sensei, I have no time for this. I've become too uppity with my risk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter