Friday, September 9, 2016

John Thomas Allen, Sun on 19


Duckface S—Y Has Come for Your Rorschach Wings,
image by Daniel Y. Harris



Sun on 19

(for s—y)


These dreams weeding beetles lately
and the ice record cicadas fall,
spun in Rapunzel's straw gold hair.

In a circus of mice and jeweled raspberry tart
found by the fuzz at a  carnie robbery.
You folded a paper heart in the passing
hands of my life's gas bubble. I trace
your gumption on beaded granulates,
rock salt hindu dots, Barbicide sugar cubes, 
anodyne polka dawns, red bingo markers 
on these trick mirrors my life has arranged.  

A trinity knot will wind our knuckles in pearl
white wishbones and fool's gold round 
the synapses' paeans, a higher calling sticks
to the ceiling in smoked plume notes, 
your blood jewels soften in your neck
and the water becomes an elastic condom.

These dreams weed beetles 
beading minutes in morse green. 
Cow's cancer skin, elderberry moths 
spotted with rubber fido's window-
watching-leukemia. Paper hearts of my life 
in a panel binder Giallo red, you are one 
(or the other) in a confessional phone booth 
with brass rings, the deja vu color, before 
I flew burning as a mail carrier
toward Icarus in roller skates. 

The pop rock gravel steams in roseate oil,
stained glass beverages and thimble 
microphones behind parcels greased 
in rorschach wings. 

What do you see? Sow my eyes shut 
with the Ripper's scapular and the saints 
will float in catatonia's slop bucket of 
hypnagogia pearls. Finned dispersion tips 
on a single point. In the Dice Cup 
of seltzer oceans painted 
in Jacob's yellow star

A form parallel to the Yellow Wallpaper 
templates where hazel moons slide 
as eyes of olive rosary beads beam, 
your heart is bending in ridges 
of a music box handle's shadow

Spindles, clockwork wings spattered 
in a cobalt bird’s explosion in the child’s 
crayola marshes where deja vu 
has a swiveling mustache.




—John Thomas Allen


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