Disco Ball Breaker
by Texas Fontanella
Though you might have to have them lift the embargo
On your imagination to see it,
the white maned rumbling in the distance gets me
Checking my spinning compass for
Such disturbances are wanton to stabilise it.
No more marauding bedouins, I say,
Though one certainly comes
To miss them, in the cold of the desert’s morning, when
The blue sky flies off as if bugs. I’m not pulling your
Strings like orpheus, that should be obvious, it’s as true as my tongue is
A slug. It wishes you all the breast. The question of our purpose, though, hangs
Like a cry for help: half heartedly, as if a contemporary
Fashion. Don’t refuse to breathe; it’s un
Becoming a young man, or woman, or whatever
You call them. Get down and out
Of that at once. “What, the shallow state got to you,
Too?” Look, I say, backing up like a hard drive, I just need you
To come down like a regular partygoer, have some milk
And accept any cookies. The dancefloor, which, all your dances
Being flawed, is almost a pun, needs you,
Like dough, to keep on going, be permanent as revelation, and I’m getting one of my urges just now
For you to zero in on one, explode all over your face
Epiphanically. You can wear the rope as a tie, nobody will ask
A great many questions. You’ll blend in
With the masses’ hysteria, which makes it common sense to transfer me all your money
Is no good here
We only take long walks through with the dessert
Islands pop up everywhere. Think or swim,
We cant do neither. And if you remove the eye
Of the storm from us, it’s just gonna piss down again, instead of,
As per usual, up. My watch says, as watches so helpfully do at times like these,
That that’s true north. So we flee like we’ve just been offered a bite
Out of a poisoned country: with banjolin accompaniment.
For four weeks, every night when we wake up, we’re still leaking
A whole army of meanings. Though half are dishonourably
Discharged, the rest keep us going over
Walls and roofs, tripping constantly, for such be how we get
Around, but as work it is as lonely as
Your clout. And when the clouds swoop in, drug bust ravenous, and occupy the sky, which,
According to our terms, and following the necessary conditions, is also a psych-
otic episode aired for the umpteenth time, they
Crowd about you, canned laughter, until
The welkin line sags. We throw our hands up,
But it’s like an artwork – of no use. Adipose, it crashes,
And takes us out to © what we can see
