Elisabeth Workman
THE UNSPOKEN REVERENCE THAT IS DWARF QUEEFING
Truest action is in silent moments
the twisting multinational leaps leaving
claw marks in mute meditation
The stiff walk. The fat moon.
OMG the sun just pooted
It’s happened to me too.
bloaty and moiled then hurled
from the mouths of colossal bulls
and lions represented with 5 legs
in memos by no means
comprehensive
They basically warned
coughing nose bleed sneezing stuffy
would one day kill Flar, and Grod,
and Gald, and Angus Firehammer
if the epochs of our lives do not
submit to the unspoken powers
of Dik Dik dwarf antelopes
SOOOO fetching
soooooo keeee-yewt no
Penn & Teller Bullshit but
THE GOATS OF EQUILIBRIUM
LIVE AT BRIXTON THE REAL THING
hear the collective intake of breath
taught by quaint Balinese shadow puppets
the synchronization of galactic information
with the mutual needs of the Earth
this colossal gasp the common reverence
that is dwarf queefing for those
who become very close
in a silent way
in an outdoor way
* *
MAYBE MALIBU, MAYBE BEOWULF
Then, there was toil,
as toiled the slaves of Rome
in flowy frocks and torpedo tubes
abnormally polite to the love hostage
who realized quite unexpectedly
the “U” in U-boat
is for “venereal.”
According to ancient science
after every explosive climax comes
“What then?” Then, entire families,
sitting in the middle of craters
chomping down corndogs. Then,
a little bit of syphilis.
Then, Comic Sans.
Year after year the toil
and the coitus. This would be
the real story told to earth people
in a voice more trusted
than the situation warranted.
What then? Maybe Malibu.
Maybe Beowulf.
Then, when the hills break out
ablaze, people will reach for their
joy sticks and try to transubstantiate
into the infernal wisdom of electricity
using Western techniques and trends.
Hi-fi clap-on, clap-off firelight,
then another high noon
in which staring at the same dot
transfixed for hours could
potentially result
in hot gore.
* *
BOO 