At The Musarium (13) by Peter J. Grieco

[21601 – 21700]

Dilatation after dinner, a sundial
goatherd adventuring to empower
his frippery, to unlearn Bergamo,
to boomerang, to digress, a scavenger
with diarrhea as he noodles his
untrammeled scull, his hexagonal
convergence, his silver roadster
parked out-eft, aegis to the age-old
sanatorium: You’re omnivorous.
Superlatives always overshot your
genital helix of copulation, counter-
attack, contortion, & impregnation,
doomsday fathered ‘til doomsday,
Iberia agoing & woebegon.

[21701 – 21800]

Unbind a monkey’s sophistication—
& the outflow is moonrise. Leverage
heartstrings, & vitreous farrier will
astound even Shiva. Sheared gears
sag, but the old coot remains
a fatalist. All-night weaning, Anglo-
Norman acceding, soporific blackamoor
disagreeing, taffeta whirligig adverting
the semi-fireproof exegesis
of eclogues that rankle a sweaty
purgation beside some di-symphonic
merry-go-round of obesity. Never
inflate what GNP portends, even when
melodic mosquitoes sprawl seaward.

[22001 – 22100]

Workaday tittle-tattle, someone’s
evangelistic vivisection, landless
diocesan monogamy, doggie
luminosity, the limelight of a
seaworthy trireme: someday tactile
x-ray will deform this septic camaraderie
acceptably. We gouge at the inept
somatic abstracting that depresses
us, the centripetal bumpkin who egged
on the top-heavy Calabrian,
the unsettling hanger-on, hesitant & timeless
who militate, amalgamate, & fabricate
each taxable cymbal at the gauche
symposium, the trespasser, the
challenger with her thermal cerebellum,
her benzene meteorology moot.

[22201 – 22300]

Tisn’t the Trappists, tisn’t the spinet,
the mindless manx, the avid monad,
the pear-shaped bombshell, the cerulean
figurehead. No. Let’s cuddle, instead,
under your secondhand poncho, mooning
the firefly. It’s all made-up: conic
viola on the lucent hinterland,
hazing at the stadium, duckling
arcana near Montevideo. These deflect
coordination of lineament &
infrastructure, while we diddle thriftless
& homemade, while we weevil. Anyway
tisn’t Tanzania, tisn’t Columbine.

©Peter J Grieco 2014


Follow Peter J. Grieco

Bio: The author is a former university writing instructor who has published around 100 poems over the past five years. He is currently studying mathematics in Buffalo, NY, his native city. He enjoys studying French and composing songs for the guitar.

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