Where Did the Time Go: Poems
by Theo Henson — 2022-03-22
Looking for the New Beat Generation
Dialectic electricity sparks a plethora of eccentrics Planned methodic mysteries frolic in fields preventing Moloch's yield And ruminate on the empty date of gift-giving to lift yourself from hyperbolic notions of decline. It's with a depressive optimism that these thoughts are exchanged, rhyme, hanged, and climbed Up to the pinnacle of divinity go the words of a literary visionary, flexing the interlockedness of her documents Psychedelia found archived in an almost-non-fiction rose-thorn- and prose-adorned chorus. For there's a forest for us, the sights of which they're unaware and scared Of jazz songs and neon thongs the made-up neighborhood of Lower Heights is made Laden with thrash-can-man ashtrays, stepped on, while dancing a bland can-can in private alleyways. Making peace with your chagrin, dismal bin-picker-uppers have a good day smiling The disastrous masterpiece smiths a surrounded island Astounded, I ask, "will you be with me in Rockland?"
The jet pack slacker Fills blank jet-black tanks With jet fuel-cranked tools He jets across the sky foolishly high Just nudged my judgment Not a plane Not plain Jet
The see-how-it-goes Lowe's construction material always works best for ad hoc ethereal building projects you think about at morning forgetting to put milk in your breakfast cereal. While you take up making it a seriously delirious fear electrifies without shaking and petrifies without breaking down like a disappointed kid ridden of clown-nose birthday shows. "Where did the time go" you ask laughing at epitaphs until it's reciprocated on airplanes flown by when you're having fun too soon and the pilot's hallucinated another problem to solve until the wings orderly devolve. "Oh I remember" as you resolve and say pouring the two percent into the baked corn flakes saving the day and in a weird way you're glad since Cheerios make cheery not dreary or bad.
Make Cavendish (And Corresponding Diagram)
Flying banana factory in space Orbiting 'round at its own pace Churning out yellow fruit stock Domineering power bloc Controlling the supply Fueling fog sky Satellite It hurts Work
Lazy chair lyrics developed while reclining Convey mixed spirits about fine dining Hazy afternoon before night caused frightening Sunday feet weird and tired get mired running Trapped, you try to step back to your chair Suffocated, you fail to inhale the fuming air Elucidated, you declare dreaming pulling your hair Finished, you pen the last word returning to your lair The episode triggered by text haunted The mind you tried to keep in line with The focus fried and broken by The hocus-pocus of itself unshelved
I can't wait for leaves to grow on trees And for them to die falling off again. The ground's crush under foot is guiltily great. I heard smashed plates are loud so stop that sound; It's interesting artistically but I need pure rhythm now. Like modal memories who remember in different tones and Groaned misery happening on dilapidated keys, The old music pickups pick you up and I say: "Pick me up; shake me awake, Then purport haircut but not short. Where? What? Let's get more."