/lit/ - Literature

Cannonball gumdrop earrings and a Jerry curl
caught the last hound to Tucson.
The predator flew out the starting gate:
gait like a swollen pigeon,
stride like torrential sheets
(books cooked)
with banana peel feet
and a dried stick of meat.
The armchair cacti waved their cuffed hands
as they sang with the belly-dancing route 23's
skidoo jingle in the school-bus dungarees.
They were grateful to be listed in the credits
at the end of the never-ending slideshow.

And the pilot bound himself to the mastodon's mast
(we're still on the omnibus, to be sure)
gnawed at his tobacco rinsed gums
and ate the salt of his tired trajectory
looking up lost lovers in the directory
(he had none. Or was it one?)

A few recycled coughs, panoply of pardon-me's,
one invigorating brushing of the knees
(Oh baby won't you be my venereal disease):
now comes the melodically choreographed party favor
sleep.

Somewhen, a star is born.
NBTORSP
(think primetime television).

The sweeping corona, a Tourbillon yawn,
a rush of sweetwater from God's gills,
keeps the bookkeepers bookkeeping for Sunday's obits
as the uncut pinky hangnail tips Charon
and the cowboy saddled satellite tips
his hat as the chorus filibusters "My Sharona"
as they nosedive feet-first to Arizona.