love letter

The sea has its smelling salts and is merely turning them over.
Mnemonic Summer loves techne, hates other things. Technically
we are all amateur athletes. That bit there is land. Bio kaufmarkt,
whatever smacks the best has the record licked. Everything is iso
lated. Lately hands are shaking. I cracked my head making unpre
dictable movements – eg. tumble turn – and then I wrote down
everything that you said: all of these are indictable offences. Every
phrase is an arrow. I bow to your metrics, humble detective. i am
apple. Surely. I fill my coke bottle glasses with soda water. This or
ange is a grenade. Which is not fair really, she’s lovely. I left a feather
in your pillow and fed the birds mince meat which, in a way is which
is quite a good point him out to me with your finger is not much to
look at show me your hand, hold it still, it’s shaking. Not everything
is a fallacy think of you, for example. Everything was linoleum. The
poppies slipped their little tongues out. Nobody expected that from
the little fur-balls. The cats are just lunging in the air and bubbling
their backs. We were westward and early and everything was obscure.
Uncle Fenster fell out the window and I burnt the designs for the
remake. In winter we drank dew and ate honey, didn’t we. We sang
of Freudian melancholia and savoire faire, had a sci-fi slow-jam. I was
early yearly. We were eastward. We walked from one side of the road
to the other obliquely, then completed the mirror image on the wall.
I was cross back then but the mountains were flat enough. I just suck
my shoulders toward my head and say, enough’s enough. That’ll reach.
A sparrow shot straight through the wheel of my bicycle and spake
beautifully of lost memory, of summoning things together, of
everybody being guilty and debt-laden until a certain time, when
the Pope was on the fritz, and my rémoulade was so good I swear to
god, I got the chicken wings for the price, I put my money in a jar
on the corner, I shimmied up to you, patched the tiles on the roof,
and nothing was a match for it.

This entry was posted in animals, condiments, flight, flora, homelands, language(s), lover, poetry, translation. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to love letter

  1. Pam Brown says:

    good poem, in my opinion, thanks Joel

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