PulpLit.net

“On Gettin’ the Fuck out, or, Reflection of Moonlight on Plane Tickets”

A.
I look into mirrors
hemmed pants and
ivory buttons
the stillness
that comes
from a proper neckline

you are putting on glasses
while the day burns itself out

B.
I look into mirrors
12 shooting stars tonight and

grey wooden planks

somewhere
a porch yearns to be filled
but not here
here
it is 3 AM all the time

C.
I look into mirrors
mahogany and dappled paper bags

I fill my pockets
with mechanical engineering
and
absorb the red spectrum

reflecting everything else.

D.
I look into mirrors
and gather gravel

You are a tire tread
left in the dust
and I am slowly cracking

E.
I look into mirrors
and the heart of light
is silence

You hear
?cover the glass?

F.
I look into mirrors
light candles
slide left and douse my reflection with linguistics

summer, the last time
is the definition of film and seaweed

G.
I look into mirrors
silver
a pen
two sheets of paper
and a season for vocabulary

I will write with icicles
and you will not understand

there is a lack of retention
while staring into space
that you will probably never understand

H.
I look into mirrors
and replace the dictionary
having circled words
I ensure a means of return

I.
I look into mirrors and
the mirrors look back

in defiance

staring into the heart of light, the silence.

i read

a banana tree

on the ground yesterday

it did not like me

three suns revolv’d round the crowd

and i saw

infinity

Let us dig up the earth

until it is nothing and piles of dirt

drift through the cosmos

each one a bbq pit of dreams.

I’ll cook up some tenderloin,

cow brains, pig knuckles, maybe

even my own foot

anything to tempt you

to bring that special sauce

slather me in it,

steal a rocket and come on by

douse me with lighter fluid and avant-garde seasonings

skewer me with peppers and onions

jalepenos and dust

kick my ass a thousand times

and I’ll love you forever

until the earth recollects itself

in space

and I have to go on

pretending I don’t know you

and not sitting next to you on the bus

going round the stupid sun.

In the supermarket
Where navel oranges are stacked high
With great precision
Like the great pyramid of Giza,
And Santa Rosa plums
Form a lesser monument
For a more mediocre monarch
In The Valley of the Kings.?
I am the jackal -faced god,
A duster of old bones
And petrified flesh,
Who breathes the desert air
At 5:00 a.m. and peers wearily
Over the meat counter,
For a fleeting glimpse
Of the floating head
Of Queen Nefertiti
In hopes her regal gaze
Will fall on my English cut roast.?
Awake Osiris to the sound
Of the Nile’s water
And sea birds calling from the reeds
To catch the gleam of light
On stainless steel countertops
For it is the deli meats
Hanging in long strands from the ceiling,
Indeed it is the garlic bologna and hard salami
That unites the upper and lower kingdoms.

Doug Tanoury is primarily a poet of the Internet with the majority of his work never leaving electronic form. His verse can be read at electronic magazines and journals across the world.