Caliban’s Bureau of Land Reclamations.
1
STROPHE
The cleanly King of Naples,
his Claribel in untidy Tunis.
Un-astute Adrian thinks the queen
a paragon of something porous.
With my magikal hunchbacked calls,
that curl the lips of clouds &
wave a kiss
to raise an uncharitable
storm at their backs –
do you understand me, Ariel?
Swear upon the book,
that you have nothing more to tell,
because its contents are continents, we are
adrift on the drool of Neptune’s brine.
By Sycorax my mother,
THIS ISLAND’S MINE.
2. ANTISTROPHE
blah blah blah blah deformed in Carthage Dido’s wearing
nothing
but a frilly smile a silly file coughed up
like an inert truth a nothing serum drank by the F.B.I so
Hannibal Lector had his gross wages become nothing garnished in his out of wedlock child collection showed little interest in me pardoning a clown having
a % of a nothing father but show up in scene 5 pursing lips kiss kiss
kiss kiss me kisses that turned me into nothing inside out
and I go slide down the throat needing a wallet of rubles on delivery
to finance nothing but a vile and bloody scoop
a sad bobbing heritage
ethnic heft is a coup to oust nothing out of a gene crockpot with a
baster and a ladle the filmic squirting of Ronald Reagan in
Pope Rambo III probably buying
a freaky fleshlight bazooka to ship to Iran
because Remus and Romulus and the Ayatollah would not cast
Jodie Foster as Bin Laden’s role in the Beyoncé video as a backwoods air
mute button as a dancer wearing nothing but bronze
cast as a cure for the
summertime blues the summer
McCarthy witch hunts nothing
the praxis Gramsci
extolled only leads to Dick Clark’s and Dick Cheney’s American Bandstand being propped
up by bar stools on Cheers as some kind of flippant
cold war saga to be tuned into
DRUNK AS FUCK
watch hippies drop out of nothing and
Hoover drops in every once and while
fresh hits of citric acid
and zinc lozenges in the nothing aisle
sunshine settles the west
Latium’s shined-on debts to the United Nations
deploying Trump’s go-cart track turned
nothing aside on a liquid toupee inside the
drunk fuck secret meeting beheld
above Times New Roman square on a firm ground of nothing flipping
bitches as they say and seeing the instructions on how to operate operation Barbarossa
are messaged to Valerian a hundred of years to the East of Van Halen
and Valens because Yohimbe wasn’t good enough
men ate iron and iron age Romanians ate Ceausescu it is tough
chewy to grasp nothing at Adrianople in 378 A.D. because SPOCK! and
Captain Kirk in the California desert come in spurts on QueeQueg’s fledgling log of Cornish Ecstasy rolling and along comes a yule logs again tossing the embers tossed in the fire by clever dead Germans Fraser worries in the
Golden Bough about Einstürzende Neubauten crossing the Danube and
gives me raw nothing seaweed
nori and a powerpack assorted whale parts
to parse with sushi blades before I pass out like Mana unto the Israelites I run all over the Mediterranean like an herb chicken an actual lopped off platitude.
