Friday, June 18, 2004

Colon: Colon

a collaborative poem by Tim Botta, William May, and Marcus Slease

They sold cows their bad. Fortunately,
lifting doesn't demand possession of illicit mangoes.
But actors need bovine inducements
that hypnotic beavers dance among smiling lillies,
unless Lars shaves
impertinent, belched and catalogued,
confused, constabulatory memory.

Egg Foo old man
who eclipses musty guns
before breaking meatloaf wisely.
Of all ways of being passive-aggressive,
the cows have worsened to pestering cornflowers
which tremble expanding beaver travels.
No, you mustn't disperse hairs
without first shaving the beaver.
Beaver, complicated beaver.
Cow, melancholy: cornflower blue, or,
children of formica.

Small lycanthropes sew serious hair-bags
upon re-entry. Concertina concertina
tambourina yeah.
Colon: colon. Semi-colon rock
is Dionysian comma operas, Neal,
require Nealing choirs. And is mammalian
beavers conjunction flattery flapping. But,
precarious pickles collaborated beyond mating rituals' reverberations
require dissension instruments,
rattle and slush wombats.

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