THE MONITOR

Real feel™
in the malathion light
not adrift with centaurs
not splattering,
jailed
like an epidermis
in the center of fluorescence
smelly
Two small syllables
in sensurround with
domineering
men
I sway them with a low
moist.

Nothing moos.

The horror groans
retching outwards

It's a bummer
snidely mulling over
my fear – the pups dehydrate

over lethargic strain –

Great asses
obscene convex

clowns full of sex

flatten

the rogue dwarf blackens

Tomorrow they'll behave
They'll spill out of their blouses
Tomorrow they'll wheeze

Nothing moos.
The hovering barges

and I the lone moron

jailed
in the figure of the girlfriend

If I stretch out my hand
the air is a spongy booty
a superfluous nameless bean

I pee

It is not tight nor the tights
of the loon

It is not the irritants that
can be felt

but a memory of corncobs

This that I see,
this grinning

in the flics and flacs

behind it there is humming,
it is the girlfriend of days

(Bony moon
bony bone)

That eyeball
on the slum-colored lips

I saw for an instant
true lies

It had the face of breath
the same face
unsolved
in the same darkling pupils

What you have breathed
You will unbreathe today

I stimulate myself

Leaning over the mnitor I see

huge clowns and
a piece of croon

all that is miserable here

feeble mouses
the deep peasant

concave like a glower
and all the miserable
cheer –

my derision

If this protuberance
is a protuberance

It does not begin with "p"

It begins with it

It perpetuates itself in it

leaning over the monitor

It sees

This wildlife that is so gross
It doesn't know what to call it.

The light fondles
the pretty like a jelly mountain

Sudden handstand falls into space
and the gerbil is flustered

not to the ground

to its vertigo

to the center of its fluorescence
It was there

I "have no idea" is where

Not the chirped
lime
envaginating in
neurotic stanzas

kite and loon
bombastic sounds

flea-like fleas
rigorous face

dimwits and violets in the air
a spurious crust that's fake

The lights are on at the airport

Uttering wrong from the
very start

Grimaces

"a milked-out stud
or vagabond floozy"

on this glittering g-string
of words

The sour silt – it –
that time hungers for.

It's damnation

Being itself

in the air
it scribbles – on

my navel.

--Nada Gordon