The river swallowed
her, turned
her into a bolus, slid
her into a slow stomach in
the middle of pre-primeval Nantes.
And waited.
Time churned, silts settled,
her tender toes now tap twenty
thousand leagues beneath
the Jules Verne Museum beneath
a dancing salon named
Sea of
Dreams.
Her serpent twines
expectant near her cunt – ou,
disons-nous, near the école élémentaire
named after Gustave Roch, scholar
of surfaces topological until he
died untimely in the coils
of tuberculosis . . .
Her nipple
perks the Palais
des Sports de Beaulieu,
where Real Madrid played
PAOK Thessaloniki
in a beautiful ’92
Eurocup
game.
her, turned
her into a bolus, slid
her into a slow stomach in
the middle of pre-primeval Nantes.
And waited.
Time churned, silts settled,
her tender toes now tap twenty
thousand leagues beneath
the Jules Verne Museum beneath
a dancing salon named
Sea of
Dreams.
Her serpent twines
expectant near her cunt – ou,
disons-nous, near the école élémentaire
named after Gustave Roch, scholar
of surfaces topological until he
died untimely in the coils
of tuberculosis . . .
Her nipple
perks the Palais
des Sports de Beaulieu,
where Real Madrid played
PAOK Thessaloniki
in a beautiful ’92
Eurocup
game.
Image: le jardin, by Max Ernst. For other stories it inspired,
see Magpie Tales.
Hip and intelligent write...always a treat to see you at Magpie, Kathy...
ReplyDeleteI really like this one.
ReplyDeleteSuch a flow! Beautiful!!
ReplyDeleteerosion
ha. really like the structure of this and how it plays into the poem...very nice...
ReplyDeleteOne of the best poems Ive read today. Kudos to your words. :)
ReplyDeletethis is way cool...love where the pic took you... what a journey...eh...
ReplyDelete