Dean Young


Walking on Sunshine

Is it morning where you are?
Is it moaning where you are?
I am happy as a leaf if a leaf
is six feet tall and having a heart attack.
Heart, stop attacking. Be made of paper
but not butcher paper. Be folded
into a bird. Navigate not crepitate.
Luxuriate like a complicated definition
of a simple word. Like that. Like like.
You are just a rubber caldron spilling out
what you suck into yourself
with an admirable flexibility
like a little white lie,
like a little white wine
making me blame everything on your infirmity.
Don't chew with your mouth open,
you footprint on the moon you.
You personal trainer arsonist.
Big glut. I'm not scared of you,
go ahead stop. I know god will take me back
like a bad dog full of burrs.
When you first get divorced
from the primordial matter,
it's lonely in outer space,
everything in boxes
for someone else to destroy.
Okay, I'll scream once
a very personal scream,
the kind coming from yourself
sound like someone else made of phosphorus
decaying very fast, someone who can rise
above the earth in a shiny flicker suit
and never come down to refuel.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review