Lloyd Wallace

e

my soul floats like a jockstrap

down the river of my will

the self is an oily

mist i guess

& time is an orgy of clocks

i’m over it

the seasons splat

the world gets bigger

my thirteen

nipples hail the dawn

it’s all the same to me

the days scatter

like onion skins

my microwave won’t kiss me back

this is the soft basement

of everything

take a cupcake

shame is moist

& i am pregnant

with the stink of wildflowers

flightless moonlight

& the sunken candle

of a voice

––––

encyclopedic / light

& otter liquids

the black bathymetry

of want

a body startled

into airlessness

my nipples cry

like flightless birds

uh huh

o yeah

is daylight

vegan

i heard your

husband’s made of yarn

that’s hot

now open up

the moon’s a shovel digging

through the soft earth

of the sky

biotch

let’s levitate

ironically

let’s hunt our dentists

let’s snort love

off moldy toilet seats

let’s tell our exes that we died

hell yeah

brother

like ugh again

the pencil dust

of memory

is scattered once

again by living winds

get in loser

heaven’s a hot tub

i’m a ripening

infection in the filter

& god’s about to

breathe me in!

––––

Lloyd Wallace is an Assistant Editor of Poetry Daily. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in FENCE, the Iowa Review, the Washington Square Review, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @jockeycornsilk or at his website lloydwallace.com.

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