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In an internally persuasive discourse daze
of 'Derevaun Serauan, Derevaun Seraun',
down Dereham Road. Dereham Road. Howl Zion days,
when I was porngaunt, scoreborn.

When I was scoreborn to sweet cur boons,
wild enough to grow psychoplasmic clothes
'low Eurolupine, lyricicatriced moon
(sphere rose over spherical rose).

Poignantly porngaunt, less Ly-tran-der
than deadnamed Dirk Diggler w/ pork Trigger's broom.
Phalloplasty patched fiddler's frankenfurter,
'Wayne Karoshi' my clinical nom-de-plume.

Turn on, tune in & grow up a picayun-
icorn, inconsequential & unique. I coulda been
a downtown tribune, downtown tribune,
but the scoreborn pourscorn like a teen.

Down Dereham Road, Dereham Road of dented
leopard, dented leopard roadkill went doom-
dated whelps. They never repented
the nepenthe, coz scoreborn follows scar boom.

Whether '88, '99, zerozero, borngaunt jeune
squelettes, diaspora of scorers crunch
urban recurrences. Pusherman in the moon,
still ivory dealer of youth's lush putsch.

We skinned up on CD cases, the record sleeves,
& upon the vinyl & CDs. Smaze mauve room,
where mauvais foi of paranoia, twigs & leaves
blessed us blandiose blasphemers maroon.

Tales so slight, vignette vinegaroon
- 'least I chased my own, tho' Hounds of Ultrabox
tore out my tindervox at the gag of moon-
set. Most porcelain storm?  Mornshocked.

Urb cubs slowcooked less porngaunt.
Afa, gluggy, June gloom? Rejoice, it's June!
Youth is wasted, but monsters I'd haunt,
acolytes I'd slough? Gone the same/ remain too soon.
Ludlow Nov 2018
perhaps you are out of town.
you don’t answer your calls.
the neighbors say you were seen reading Sartre.
there must be some mistake
the physics is all wrong.

was that you they dreamed?
even the clouds are confused.
this better not be the end of the book.

it’s time for lunch.
they’re serving spaghetti
again.
Rekha Nur Alisha Nov 2018
She was that Chekhovian girl
who fell for Dostoevsky
and Camus and Sartre
and
   you.

— The End —