Product of utterance and smarmy pants, poetry sans dragon still strikes a chord. Strikes it again. The chord splits into cosmic desuetude. Bobcats freak. Bumpershoots spurn desire. Projects fall apart. Tokyo jitters with the effects of those big saurian iambic feet of the star of that day (less so now). Will survival mean anything when we are all dead? Death is being without the coolest poetry in the land. Death is a commercially unviable abject state. Death is unproductive. Death is a sucker punch while we watch Gilligan's Island. Death is also Gilligan, but you knew that. You also knew, and went along with, how Mr and Mrs Howell absconded with the entire language unit of the island. When the critical dragon of the day flew over, those two had the secret Masonic sign by which overthrow was constituted by inbred tactics and isolated readings. They had no cellphone then, locked in an age of jerk your head savagely to say no. Yet they knew timeshare from smarmy pants, and they could lock the bathroom with the best of 'em. What might that mean, if we were scoring? Gilligan neutered to a little loss, lacking Maryann's generative examination of language theory based on presumptions of innocence (fuck that!). Dire remnants of all this gas occurs in ecological disasters to our poetry systems. The dragon farts and we expect miracles. The dragon calls us on our cellphone but we are too drunk on power. The coolest ringtones assuage not the empathy rising up for that movie in which the rich kid dies from cocaine abuse. In honour, my ringtone sounds like a drum roll, if drum rolls sound like this. They don't, and I'm set adrift, but I still recall that movie. I think LA was included, which is victory for the human right to advertise. The vivid expanse of dragon in the sky exudes boffo Hollywood while that president thing chooses a new ringtone to fetch bombs along the route. The hoop's broken but “Send in the Clowns” sounds like purity. We learn the terror of a slightly embarrassing ringtone. We discover who had the best poetry in their cellphone. We see proven ones in tune with extra nice dragons. Those dragons are dressed to kill but the human toll has not yet been tallied. Basically, a criminal element loves to spread mayonnaise on sandwiches, a solitude of condiment in the universe of turkey. Think of the doughty presence of that picture, a turkey sandwich smothered in Hellman's consolidation of ingredient theory with a fortitude of language on the brink of Mariah Carey talking to her press agent. See, they had a plan, again: a spurt of light into power function hallways, dance floor incidents explaining sexual nature in dance mode, examination of too tight within the logic system of terrified moms and dads. What will we do for the children as “O Captain! My Captain!” lunges towards their good nature? No worries, we can always give up completely. Does the dragon message them before gorging on some pleased instance of presidential explanation, over rounds of goodly beer, brewed cold as hell and tasting like just the right crap? Sure, Richard Simmons blesses everyone. Hell hath no fury, period. It's a matter of dammed dragons getting sucky advice from lame ass reps who haven't had a decent latte in days, that's the totality in inky definition. And this, friends, is poetry. It protrudes from naïve books and slurps over the boundaries of magazines. Don't even mench the internet, the balloons look ready to fly. And poetry, or cocaine abuse, flutters near your children. They are yours, right? You, mom and dad, need to produce a more marginal sensation as you speak in what you call language. You need to find your inner rat's ass, your proverbial fuck that, your editorial botox, and other weapons of mass instruction, to swing into the new language, hopping like throat with words. Oh such a throat, draconian with cellphone and the buoyant beauty of latte, the true eyeball. This true eyeball totally rolls, and you certainly will want to follow its excursion.
