oidis.

to be heard and understood by all is a dangerous dream
and Marguerite makes no purchases where the propaganda is concerned;
birth defects which cause one’s skin to be made of megaphones tend to kill that particular desire.



public speaking is only an art when voluntarily done.

the fact of all matters will always be as follows:

sex sells, in all degrees of perversion,

and erasure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

unlike eggs, which become exactly what they’re cracked up to be -

even when that something is sidewalk chalk;

it happens sometimes, if the basket gets dropped

like Marguerite’s was.


it’s unfortunate, because (as she’ll be the first to tell you)

chickenchildren are really quite hard to get back into their shells post-release,

the presence or lack of feathers notwithstanding.

either way, there’s not much to be done, 

so she fries up an omelette and pulls out a fork... 

though, this time there’s a little less savouring in the consumption than usual.

‘kewarasan,” she hums as she scrapes the bottom of the bowl.

“itu rusak... o kewarasan.”

aonair.

our words will be simple, our passages to the point.

The Neighborhood believes itself drifted into decay;

in the ‘burbs it goes about its business, quiet & neglected.

but today, we’ll be magnanimous for a moment

& mow the frost-tipped lawns,

giving brief attention the sagging rooftops above our red noses.

The Often Orphan & Sosh are at odds

& poor Charybdis just cowers in the corner,

willing the weedwhackers to a volume greater than the voices.

she’s a little liftoff-challenged these days.

Chimaera gets it

& picks her up in his shiny new somethingorother when the dulcet tones of discord dominate the sound waves at home.

many a night she hops in beside him

& speeds off to recreate that from which she’s fleeing.

& through this problem of nature vs nuture

the mowers drone on.