perhaps it could be tentacled?

Over on one side flapping
a gill, freshly full of guff

the performance wound down
trepanned I am but no this woken

whoops there’s a trap-door in the pavement
thanks to the arms that catch and strap

this marathon blew, darning a portrait
I don’t know how this whale will end

sbrain

netted up from some blackness wetted and called an ocean perhaps

an almanac of dough and doubled-up achtungs on the sly

here the net has embossed itself, waffled, a soppy petal of quilted afternoons in the sun

a carnivore with its coat resigned to geometry and the lessons of pain

volcanoes pimpling a purple goad to spring, and its passionfruit

Sanks

It is a pleasure to believe in a name like a claw ship-shapely in the morning. A morning that trills or doesn’t trill. That generally doesn’t trill. “Thankfully,” says a rocking horse chained to the lamp post. About that claw – if only it could dig a little deeper. I like pancakes fine, but have no passion for them. But when air raid sirens are whispering does stand still in the light of paper lanterns, safeguarding their china ankles. Or more like analog telephone rings taffied. And silver olive leaves glittering at 3 P.M. There is no cure for this disease. Alfred tells Catwoman, “There is one part of him that I would not know how to mend.” Some people, like pets, can’t learn to anticipate, or recognize, commas. Or spinning plates, or fingertips wetting tea cup rims.