This is the second part of the nonsense epic: perhaps it will continue to be serialized. You'll check back for the continuation of the saga, replete as promised with lust, intrigue, riddles, cowboys, pirates, & robots.
II.
At first I was his retainer. I was too broke to work:
The Thane of Parker Street was jealous of me, the withered irksome jerk.
How did he play those guitar riffs on those meaty fingers?
The chthonic von Richthofen fades in our memories, but the shrapnel lingers.
In May I was promoted to cartographer, but I hated the frontier.
There was never wine or salt for our meat. I grew weary of buffalo & deer.
There is a key around my pinkie, rewrapped like an aged tradition:
My official ambition was to chart the fractal mountains, singin' "hexagon craw-fishin'".
Our underground drill battle framed the campaign,
Retold as legends of boyfriends swinging from a tree in the rain.
Take the Fremont Line to Carson City and genuflect,
What's spoken of the flower shall be heard in the light of the intellect.
But there are wild-card secrets: two years into our venture, I contracted typhoid,
But you should have seen the other guy, choking on the cyborg eggplants she deployed.
Holy Cars! Long essays about winter, armorbearer stenciling a sword,
My health insurance covered the hysterectomy, so long as I redefined the word.
No genocide is complete without its hummable tunes.
The summation of our endeavors is buried beneath Columbia's ruins.
This wisdom of true mates is earthly & sensual & devilish,
And whirling, reckoning on relishing strife, malice, & her kill wish.
My love is like a water-gathering leaf structure,
Assay the treasure-mound & poke the monster where he is most cocksure.
How do I describe my companion in arm-removal & starlight parody?
Chant louder above the rhetoric, we implode these tranced flashes of clarity.
this continues next week!
At first I was his retainer. I was too broke to work:
The Thane of Parker Street was jealous of me, the withered irksome jerk.
How did he play those guitar riffs on those meaty fingers?
The chthonic von Richthofen fades in our memories, but the shrapnel lingers.
In May I was promoted to cartographer, but I hated the frontier.
There was never wine or salt for our meat. I grew weary of buffalo & deer.
There is a key around my pinkie, rewrapped like an aged tradition:
My official ambition was to chart the fractal mountains, singin' "hexagon craw-fishin'".
Our underground drill battle framed the campaign,
Retold as legends of boyfriends swinging from a tree in the rain.
Take the Fremont Line to Carson City and genuflect,
What's spoken of the flower shall be heard in the light of the intellect.
But there are wild-card secrets: two years into our venture, I contracted typhoid,
But you should have seen the other guy, choking on the cyborg eggplants she deployed.
Holy Cars! Long essays about winter, armorbearer stenciling a sword,
My health insurance covered the hysterectomy, so long as I redefined the word.
No genocide is complete without its hummable tunes.
The summation of our endeavors is buried beneath Columbia's ruins.
This wisdom of true mates is earthly & sensual & devilish,
And whirling, reckoning on relishing strife, malice, & her kill wish.
My love is like a water-gathering leaf structure,
Assay the treasure-mound & poke the monster where he is most cocksure.
How do I describe my companion in arm-removal & starlight parody?
Chant louder above the rhetoric, we implode these tranced flashes of clarity.
this continues next week!
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