BUCKLEY : 2011 “August 19”

BUCKLEY : 2011 “August 19”.

 

Spanish preparation, 
mechanical 
masturbation

-lofted luxury 
meets 
lumpy formation.

Curdled tongue turtle 
dies of froth, 
a splash of cold 
to wake the sloth. 
Parasol 
back in the 
hole,
potato poofs of warning.
Skinny specks from pools eject
to elevate the morning.



Daylight near the stratosphere,
even hookers went
to sleep.
Saggy skins below the lens, but 
motivated feet.

Mattress round the monument,
expired fluid stairs.
In stalls they work the free-for-alls
to get what’s never
theirs.

Penetrating piston power 
glides
into the station.
Automated sound of mouth makes soothing proclamations.


Marseille,
in eyes, 
shrinks half the size,
and half,
and half of that.

Next, a sliding screen of 
serene green with
bluish
as a hat.

A lack of sound is rarely
found,
but Box 16 attempts-
noodle spines
send weary minds 
bobbing in their 
heads.

Then nerves protest such flurried rest and
buzz 
with agitation-
a rocket launch of feelings flare, 
but on a short
rotation.



A
soothéd soul breaks
the mold of 

self-
encapsulation,

breathing 
out
and in
a constant spin of movement
meditation.


And, at last, a metal grasp
applies a steady brake.
Aroused from chairs and 
filed 

down 

stairs

to where the Spanish country
waits.

From queue to queue, new neighbors flow
and neon numbers grow, to trim
the space
in which
we
await
what only window people know.

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