The Plush Heads

I could be a werewolf or an ancestor
Ambitionless as the sea
a single leaf falling into the ensign of the seahorse
and the shore's brush with fame an engine driving the enigma of the flamethrower throughout Europe
in the soft and crumbling cellar doors of Avignon
could belch like a cube in the Apenine eugenics
of Rubix' Eurodisney castles along the castling height of the bohunks
a false embrace in the crewel-work darts and dalliances of the necklace
and its vulgar days along a Riviera of chintz
The palmer's shell cuts into your foot and the flower of blood
announces to the dodo like the curs of God the hobbling of the Crystal Palace
by the jellyfish's twitching finery
by the fishmonger's lingo of Goa and the honeybee calypso that hangs out in pantries so
that the cougar can utter and forge
your vanilla chenille that brushes your thigh like an employee
We trace the silken spur of the strand like two criminals kissing along the seine with the broken back
so that the larkspur of Oreos in an orgy of despair
darts into the teeth of the aviaries' dilapidated tenets
your kiss like trails of lava through the dewey vineyard
like the mushrooms that spring up on the necromancer's cupola
a man of bravado and estuaries like the soft black panther covering your breasts
The aimless Stewarts block the path at the tavern
The manly porters kneecap the oviparous Mexicans with a bootstrap
The smell of blood decays in the flaking air
The woodwinds have all been rendered useless by lichen and
the Gordian meandering of cornfed aviation
In your lisp we could plant our children a
kookaburra of utter exhaustion and an ejaculation at the sterile graves of dominos
we could kiss as ivy binds our faces together
we could greet the majordomo like some hybrid bimbo
we could great the silent spasms of the dark-blue sky
with ceremonies unknown to Tickle-me-Elmo

Gathered for miles, this shore like a divorced woman
bristles at the thought of the compony gardens
the piers like brusque lobster-shacks
the cradle that hangs in the dormitory like a pillow
I almost want to lick your thigh-high boots as carpet echoes "the time is up" to the dozing students
I have to memorise your cape of the community college is like a narcoleptic bowler
Your organza skirt nips at the winsome breeze
(The keening lepers follow with the willow's nightcap)
I have to remind myself your hair blossoms with forget-me-nots
like the baboon who pounced on the souffle
who conducted orchestras with the buffoon's oboe

Daniel C. BOYER
September 22, 2002
Houghton, Michigan, USA