Sides
Look for sides of a
right-angled triangle. They’d like you to
do that
very much.
Emaciated test-tube mutations
Raised apart in pristine distillations
Conceived in dexedrine celebrations
and the crazed, ecstatic inhalations
of the professor’s choicest pheromones
Right-angled, inverted, and star-spangled
Drained and dangled till their nerves were jangled
Nearly psychedelically strangled
Quantumly, at a distance, entangled
On celestially balanced microphones
Their unproven kaleidoscope harmonics
Haywire mk-ultra histrionics
Phosphoric rhapsodical symphonics
And their backward time-lapse polyphonics
Transcribed on interstellar xylophones
For homunculus scintillations
Splintered, syncopated oscillations
And desperate mute gesticulations
No one beats those galactic sensations
Our own mad-twin Splitzmodic Vibratones
Outside the sanctum, clenched teeth, tension,
a sense of being spun slowly, in comical ocean drift
Bobbed cork barely able to rein my orientation.
Luckily, current flux of haphazard happening flapped
a variable vantage.
Blown as though by silk hankie butterfly blessing
launched under lead light detail dragonfly wing
Inside the sluice.
tender seagrass arms greet me, surprise caressed
Silky entry to a tepid tub, a calm community
of smug inner sanctum club members, afloat.
Blind to bedlam, their faces automatically accepting
Smarmy, aloof, knowing the code
Clicked into correct holding pattern
Galvanized now among the longed for,
unlocked passage
Boasts a right angled me, porthole refuge
Catatonic sanctum immune to struggle
Bay of steady abundance
Top step mission for admission somehow granted mine
Spotlight shon on my cloned social demeanor,
Meticulously honed modesty of highbrow gallery.
24th February
Written for Contest: Gateway
Sponsor: Constance La France
High above gray Manhattan’s marge,
‘Midst toothsome towers in the sky,
A construction crane there looms large,
Dwarfing the crowds of passersby.
A new building grows, rising high,
Clouding another patch of sky.
A tower for trade will arrive
Where businesses may fail or thrive.
An unsung Mohawk warrior,
And an iron-ribbed Spartan crane,
Raising stanchions; bolting girders,
Work in harmony on the frame.
Clutching the cables of the crane,
Beam rider goes where most aren’t fain;
Riding angled steel slabs, held tight,
High aloft, nearly out of sight.
In their union, we may marvel:
From out of an architect’s dreams,
Row by row; level by level,
They unfold a right-angled frame.
And when the beam rider has gone,
Who will recall his days bygone?
For those who make real others’ dreams,
That is the way it goes, it seems.
Right angled square, to a perfect straight black,
With a classical blue tinted shirt,
And stockings that reach all the way up,
Beneath the perfectly pressed skirt,
Or flannelette top, all chequered in plaid,
Lazes over the T shirt in white,
With the wide brimming hat, worn over dyed hair,
And worn well into the night,
Else you might see her wear a long flowing dress,
Stilettos gripping her feet,
Holding a small leather bag, with her little white glove,
Walking along the main street.
Fashions of women, from business to hip,
To a nineteen fifty retro sublime,
Makes all women beautiful, in my small male heart,
Bewitching me every time.
Penny dropped circular clocks on carved out emblematic wisdom cones. Be careful if it rains coal dust as radioactive drones, mobile phones, and teapots too could all gather to form lines of imperialism. How rather interesting it is to count the snot flung out of the window. It often lands in a rather interesting pattern do you not think? And waiting for parcels is akin to waiting for a slug or a snail to travel sixteen times down and up a highway. Ok then. Great. Floors fathom first flinging fleeces. And the traditionalism is always at the number two position on a compass compressed clock canister. And one hour forty-five minutes in a pressure cooker is quite often akin to racing up a right angled hill. A salted mist is a skiing zone. Where lots of whales and dolphins play and make snowmen. And a snow go e is neither a pickled onion nor a jester playing a harpsichord. Ok then. That is the latest from the p y q. Z
Trumpeting cauliflowers never blow eggs backwards onto a postal stamp. So never kick a cabbage to a kerb. Oh watch now. All drive safely. Harmonics in a queue are indestructible and indescribable too. Oh counting. Fun fun fun but not for an atom. They prefer to whizz around a jug. Or a used dish. Or a mop bucket. Take no acetic crow to a crown party. For feathers fly as the dresses are announced and who wishes to swim in thick tar or oil anyway. No a pointing stick says. That is quite right. And rights are righteous and righteousness is a right-angled visionary visualising rhombic robot. Dare to argue with GHQ? Or something that is said that is not paths? Tread light. Upon the grounds of carpets. Carpets carry carnivorous carnage. And a douchebag in a suit is neither a swimming whale nor a wallaby. Ok then. Good. Fantastic news for all who attend the operatic antics of the wardrobe sheaths.hahaha pickled melon meeting pickled lime. Hahaha leotard lion leapt. Hahaha swordfish sampling sailing seas. Xxxx Constantinople z. That was the p y q reporting in the afternoon from the aerial perspective of the debate about that apple pie. Z
One mean footed man said to another "where are the swan cakes?". To which the right angled man replied "I ate them. I ate them. I own them all. I ate them." Passing from behind came rustling then this was ceased with a bang. Fifteen feathers came hurtling through at the men. And two beaks hit them. As sharp as arrows. They fell in the stream. Swept away. Far away. For the tides of existence are exact. And the honour of nature more honourable. So speak the leaf on a sunny day. Question not an irate toad driving a black land rover. Sailing sweeping swept singing salty spitting slitting spliced spicy spews speedily. Aromatics x
I
Am
A three
Sided figure.
Three pointed vertices
Which add up to total 180.
Am of many different types and,
They include right angled,isosceles equilateral
Triangles,which all have one face and three edges
The implementation of me is simple as my speech shape.
Company Cafeteria
People right-handed
carry their cups
in the right hand.
Left-handed people
carry their cups
in the hand that befits
left-handed people.
Whichever the hand
all carry their cups
elbows right-angled.
Whichever the hand,
all cups are at sea, adrift
on an ocean of saucers.
Donal Mahoney
Digital clock bomb ticking silence lower right angled forever is eight point five
hours a day there toiled kempt invisible spent walking rigid funk robot wired
loose framed shut felt mutt waste like glimpse circular window goldfish and city’s
outline swept through wander inhale adjust inhale time square one infinite mess
oh calculator sonata
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