Recursion

I quiver blind and deaf
Wind and gravity and light
Define a tumbling body
Blurred rough black against black
A shadow floating over a void
And skeleton bikers crash
Through rifts on flaming hogs,
Spewing flaming daisies
From their tailpipes.
Laughing skeletons riding bitch
Seed fresh ruin with dead
Rabbits drawn from top hats.
A poet tumbles through
A membrane. A puff of smoke
Materializes and dissipates
On a forming horizon
Faintly glowing red
From fires of creation.
No one notices.
The skeleton bikers,
And their bitches miss it.
Surly the rabbits miss it,
And if the daisies noticed,
They kept it to themselves—
Perhaps out of hope
The poet would save them.
But poet gone.
Poet not coming back.
You’re only hope, dear daisies,
Is that you painted a scene
Captivating enough to
Hold a poet.
Make it rubbery elastic,
Gooey and sticky.
Make it flypaper and
Catch a poet.
Make it sharp and deep,
So when I come crashing through,
I capture at least your essence,
A poem for the poet.

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Franklyn Monk

Poet. Geek. Science fiction aficionado. General freak.
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