recombinant storm | Michael Dickel

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recombinant thoughts

So sick and sycophantic dancing moonbeams stand, whoever saw the light waltz? Moody recombinant thoughts fracture fractal refractory factory-scented air-freshener, computer-generated garbage run amok within the fragmentary discourse left of my feathered mind, dripping down the avenue evening: punked-out crowd, music, people. Women hula-hooping on street corners, harnessing the drunken power of male gazes in beery hazes while videographer teens trade cell-phone numbers. All locked together in cellular decomposition. Recombinant thoughts. Along slick marketing lines. Whoever saws through fragmentary discourse. The light moody waltz, but feathered on the left, dripping down the evening-minded avenue. The crowded street corners run amok. Ideas fractured within computer-generated women who watch. Drunk with media, people playing the part to play along. Fractal refractory factory-consumerism cell-scented air-freshener in decomposition. Phone numbers locked up. So, in all conclusions, the phrase dancing moonbeams stand to hear Bertolt Brecht sing Bakhtinian heteroglossia, ruptures of social fabric shredded amid burning torches, dialogic strains, broken vessels cracking light.

after the storm

I alone survived the storm, the sea, and the whale’s ancient might. He walked by. She walked out. They never glanced at each other. A car growls. She sips wine. He looked at street people. He was late picking Joe up at the airport, having screwed Joe’s wife. Orphans another found, only children missing her—after searching, retracing her—Rachel. Beak-sheathed sea-hawks sailed, their savage mouths padlocked as they soared. The drama over there, over here, over—the drama finally is done. Once princess-kissed, an (in)human trans(formation), and taking her to bed, that old frog woke at dawn and skipped out with the spell-making witch. Might ancient whale have survived storm, sea—me alone at night. Sea waves crash over us all.

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