Cider, which I hate, pours vile into
my gorgeous mouth, rolls across the
tongue and moons, slimes silk-like down
and waits, tempestuous, violent and soft.
The water moons the falling sky.
Beginning now to race and gather, impy
vaudeville commences, the beauty of
beautiful women marshalled into a wintry
and solitary force. Hot legs and brows, a
creeping stain, the weeping of a thing in love or pain
and now the breaking of a start which,
unbeknownst, sinks idly under things
which stink of mass or weight.
The Simpsons television show, an episode
of Futurama, black dogs which howling race
across the iced and opaque howling river.
I love you forever and beyond
eternity says them to we, and
the flood now commences in earnest and wildly. The sun
chases itself behind a cloud
and from the wheat which borders
my house come children, gleaming,
who knock on my window gleefully
and beg, with happiness and knowing,
for the umbrella of a wave which will cover them while sparkling.
by Col. Baldwüllz