In the Wazbu capital of oshiptakroy,
passengers bottleneck, battered upon the wake,
screaming, stranded, in an oblong mirror;
nasty quakes in the rich limestone, fever grade,
in the limestone mix they get their kicks,
feathers of the past shade.
the moon is driving this, our hearts are made in the moon,
it's red inside, comes out at the seams,
and during the dark winter the sun is rearranged on the inside,
burning through the cages of time,
the office of the moon now fragments on the open sea,
sandcastle merchandise fleeing the waves,
shower of madness with epic propultion;
the turn is not the twist to follow,
sandy in the hook, train rustified,
brimstone balance of a lemony sea on an empty planet,
they know what to say on that screaming day,
we watch how they move, while the never-ending stream
of licensed oo-too-woon-too wine flows graciously.
-onderdonk nepomuk