whatcanyouseenow! ghosts and stuff CC
What I miss most is a bunch of unsound landscapes
trimmed horizons sucked into the gaps between ramshackle mansions
I can’t find a crack in the sky nor food for a foot
I take heed of the lakes insane like butterflies and sunflowers
radio stations are crumpled masks for divine sleep
flat tires and hiccups blow up each asshole I love
evaporate manifold puddles that soon become their eyes
I am to hear rare drops of water inside the roadkill
good music always means death to the listener
In the Silence of Molten Tea Spoons
It’s time again for bananas to swear
under the dirty rugs of the sky,
when ghosts ask themselves if they breathe or not
and guinea pigs cross the Atlantic in droves.
Allergies amplify the wallpaper, but backyards
kill the winds, mock celestial noise and widen
the wounds of the residents. Firefighters usually
appear at the parties out of the blue
with a man that has a crocodile tail on a leash.
It’s time to look for a $22 bill
in the pockets, to sing like a horse
with a dead rider, to watch the stars frying
at the bottom of the world, tasteless.
It is the duty of mirrors to quarrel with the void.
Ivan Peledov lives in Colorado. He loves to travel and to forget the places he has visited. He has been recently published in Human/Kind Journal, PPP Ezine, Ponder Savant, and Goat’s Milk Magazine.
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