The split you for inspiration: Freud’s
theory of the untinny. I prefer
the cenotaphic stubby holder.
Monumentally ersatz
as a Test draw, sticky with time.
We sit on the deck with the lions unmemoried beyond.
Don’t they have homes to go to? Last week, it was
a pack of unfamiliar oompa loompas
singing
‘all by myself’.
Long after, one stayed humming with mandarin
levity. It’s not a roaring pain,
just ever-constant. Karaoke gold.
Love as an exercise of non-linear thought
defies theories of zoological substitution
or Porphyrian logic. We seek
drinks on the house and, failing that,
a spot of televised asylum.
The melancholia of a setting sun
not being
all it cracked up to be. Animal affection
lines the shelves of a local convenience store
which, in our incumbent pride,
we choose not to enter.
Instrumentality goes out for a duck.
