Reflections by Still Waters
During the entire period of this flight
No one can or will
Attempt to bar entry
To her bloated tongue
That hangs
There snakelike,
Like a rope bell
From the skies...
Keep your hands inside
The moving vehicle, and
Attempt to adhere
A second pair
Of safety googles
To your face for comfort...
The Weeping Caravan is now
So devastatingly vulnerable...
See the sober groups in funeral garb...
And wouldn't you cease to know it
To avoid her morass of
Braids, and epic tangles
That continue after death...
The strangle vine beneath the
Kind caress...
She's aiming to close the door
So violently rough on you
And all that you've achieved,
Because she's cast a glaring judgement
Before the next still,
And the words her friends
Have piled high...
The pale yellow chicken clucks...
Have lastly sunken teeth...
Hello, My Dear...
Those amino acids that
Seek to invade me
Tell me that I have nothing
I should fear for your feisty
Interlopers
Dressed in earnest shades of blue,
Though you were to seem so genuine
Before you sped the tractor over all that we
Held dear, throwing a deadly final switch...
During this flight
No one can or will
Attempt to bar entry
To her bloated tongue
That hangs
There snakelike,
Like a rope bell
From the skies..
How do they aim to know?
Eyes in armor that lie behind the castle moat...
...The same one's that I return a gaze to after
Lifetimes of remote viewing...
Barely breaking a sweat before the newest force
Ensues...
The spiders pass into this realm
Unscathed,
As I convince myself that aid
Will be forthcoming...
She takes me in cold arms,
We watch the moments tick off, under
An evolution of still photographs...
I laugh afterwards in grief...
Losing light like birds in flight
Below a sunset
That has caught us groping for
Lost straws
With pants and skirt akimbo...
On the edge of skinny diving
For a mythic mountain glide...
See you at the end of night!..
Wonder if you'll nurse your presence....
'til the ponds of frogs run dry..
I forgive you for us then,
Though I remain
As much to blame if not
More so
In my delineated
Rubble of past form...
6/15/24
Bunny Villaire
Edit #5
(The photograph)The Oracle, 1949.
By John Gutmann