"...I’ve worked a little on my long terza rima comic murder mystery..."


   "Lunch Codes

I.

"She were keen on
the wetlands, and so were I."

Cap-sized bobs and chafing dishes

bobolink tenders.

Leguminous butt-ends deliquescing in the nurses' breezeway,
a quintessence of small-A ambrosia.

He peeked at your ballot box and something about aversion,
a nimbus of donut sugar, your lead-white aureole. Displaced
from the doghouse, a hardon-shaped piece of air.

The entire fountain was made of water and you, my muffin-hatted
Swede, educed a dozen thought molecules.

Mangroves are puppets, you said.

I haunted your ghost.

Remember?

I threw peonies at the shark (distracted)
and at the regional dishes of your forebears.

We've started thinking again.


II.

We were the taffy guild—
Time was our confection.

We shared in common—
Dread of the moment.

Our figures embraced—
Dense cloud of impurity.


III.

“Scores will perish.” "

--G. M. Quint*, in M*lancholia's Tr*mulous Dr*adlocks 3.


"...I think of it basically as comic..."


Intriguing words from Kunstl*r.