Sebastian Hunter
DILETTANTISH
Dead ringers for obsolescence
Although abandoned once for years, the stork still clings to an ideal childhood
“I’d be the bowl to your keys”
Every spinster’s desire
Nothing says “ebullience” like a march atop the boardwalk
Mother always said to me, on a whim
There are good reasons to believe in the continued existence of ocean liners
And the old canards of Jesus’s unknown years
Hidden in cellars with all the other partisans
The years moved slow as soldiers across the landscape
In pursuit of capital or something else eternal
Ain’t it just like the moon to rise when you least expect
So I just plumb laid back and cried
––––
EACH OF THESE THINGS ARE CONDITIONAL
I vomited up the premium
purchase of a fine, self-made confit cooked with pepper in the pan
fresh apricot
and
divinity of aspic
The pavement one massive fucking altar underneath
this family establishment
“The soul aids in preservation of the body”
Dear so-called laborer
where did your ancestors abandon you?
In a different line of lonely questioning?
From the sparkle in his eye was birthed the Wild West
Horses watering from barrels
One long, ungodly façade
––––
Sebastian Hunter is a poet and drummer from Seattle. Poems recent and forthcoming in Bethh, Trampoline, Midcult, Capgras, and High Horse.