ECHINODERM
SMASH THIS ROOM AS AN ISLAND,
picture everything in
terms of husbands and wives, absolutes and nothings. Get away
from her, you crawling fiend! She has a right
to grin. Well,
dry me up and crush my arms. If you
would toss this guy off the plank >
if I could sail you through time and space. Snappy
looking dish. I can get
new arms. Cmere
Captain, the natives are restless.
Oh no!! Terrible desiccation!
Lets say you and I are marooned on a desert island.
Wait no.
Theres other people around, and mysterious places to go. Ah, I
know....
Easter Island, off the coast of Chile,
the one with all the heads. You know the
endless Pacific.
I mean the heads staring out into the ocean. So
mysterious. Stop erotic.
Stop. The yellow scheme of your hair,
DONT TOUCH IT,
could be the grains of sand that bury the starfish.
THE HEADS MUST LOOK THROUGH US.
Hold in your hand, feel
the tingle of the starfish, the grain
of sand that drops bomblike, whizzes off
one of five arms, sand bomb, spattering piece of surf.
All you
heads, all you Easter Heads, observe
this lone grain of sand, downward rocket, boom.
Turn, you heads, witness hand on
hand, lip on lip,
sand brushed/ sand scattered/ sand smashed.
Its enough to dry you up.
A distraction.
Shake it off your hands, wash your hands in the surf.
Colossal faces! Dont bug out, its enough that
your eyes were gouged
out, that your necks were broken.
Pinned in one room,
SEE, SEE THAT STARFISH.
THAT STARFISH DRIED IN THE SAND, WHY
DID YOU PICK IT UP, your husband is looking, darling,
you could break his neck > Theres
a chance that the starfish you left behind might get
washed out to sea.
Thats the rumor.
Throw it, dead thing, instead, toss
it past the tide,
you big heads watch it spiral arm over
arm, star tumbling into the sea.
Marry not, sweet urchin.
Make love on turgid surf. Easter Island, 1789.
SMASH THIS ROOM AS AN ISLAND,
picture everything in
terms of husbands and wives, absolutes and nothings. Get away
from her, you crawling fiend! She has a right
to grin. Well,
dry me up and crush my arms. If you
would toss this guy off the plank >
if I could sail you through time and space. Snappy
looking dish. I can get
new arms. Cmere
Captain, the natives are restless.
Oh no!! Terrible desiccation!
Lets say you and I are marooned on a desert island.
Wait no.
Theres other people around, and mysterious places to go. Ah, I
know....
Easter Island, off the coast of Chile,
the one with all the heads. You know the
endless Pacific.
I mean the heads staring out into the ocean. So
mysterious. Stop erotic.
Stop. The yellow scheme of your hair,
DONT TOUCH IT,
could be the grains of sand that bury the starfish.
THE HEADS MUST LOOK THROUGH US.
Hold in your hand, feel
the tingle of the starfish, the grain
of sand that drops bomblike, whizzes off
one of five arms, sand bomb, spattering piece of surf.
All you
heads, all you Easter Heads, observe
this lone grain of sand, downward rocket, boom.
Turn, you heads, witness hand on
hand, lip on lip,
sand brushed/ sand scattered/ sand smashed.
Its enough to dry you up.
A distraction.
Shake it off your hands, wash your hands in the surf.
Colossal faces! Dont bug out, its enough that
your eyes were gouged
out, that your necks were broken.
Pinned in one room,
SEE, SEE THAT STARFISH.
THAT STARFISH DRIED IN THE SAND, WHY
DID YOU PICK IT UP, your husband is looking, darling,
you could break his neck > Theres
a chance that the starfish you left behind might get
washed out to sea.
Thats the rumor.
Throw it, dead thing, instead, toss
it past the tide,
you big heads watch it spiral arm over
arm, star tumbling into the sea.
Marry not, sweet urchin.
Make love on turgid surf. Easter Island, 1789.