Monday, March 8, 2010

poem || Jeff Harrison

Engine Whip & The Three Submarines

falling fish a new burdensome joy
their eagerness already sheens metallic
who their jingling bored is beyond seamy
else her eye habits are detail inspired
else these habits got a dial bounce
(did reading sloppy count?), third sub:
"Left on night, Engine Whip!"
heard that snow does honey delicious
Engine Whip blames cold rooms
rather than any of the three submarines
her brain tumbling plural, green her feel,
"Don't, it's Night Soda..." is hummed out
blue as bird firecrackers, air can’t slide air
is the moral of the story, away fall her eyes
her smile thrown out the door, ruined is
the flesh that was to clothe the dinner
"Isn't night what the smoke does?"
her prayers distracting from honeyed snow
scrape all the connections clean and
set Plan B, quickly paralytic, next to
three cans of Night Soda

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