The craning necks
of rainwet women
are swiveling chairs
from which all plans
become. Then I come
and unplan them.

Any underlit line
on the ordered blue-print
is chalk for my cue
to destroy. So I pot
it easily
(this wrecking ball)

––though I keep
the meaning englobed
because there was a time that I fell,
brother. And how
could I be so clumsy
as to call this my phallus?

No, it is better to be aplomb:
the king of fruits is the plum,
the bestial black hole
lies asleep in my eyelids,
and the logical conclusion
of it all is simplicity.

Is simplicity.

Very good reading here on first read, James. Enjoyable, keeps me curious and happy all through, and then ready to go back for another read. Tom

Yes, this has to be read at least twice for the sheer joy of it. ...will be back.

cheryl

love the way the ending swings, James...

grazi tom, cheryl. It was hard to resist this turning into a pornographic poem about balls...

james

OH!  Izzat what it's about???

What it's about...
This kind of poem with absurd and whimsical elements and energies seems to tread a very fine line between not quite meaning enough and meaning just a little too much, and there's no saying that every reader doesn't have a different line. I have enjoyed reading this over and over, and still wish for one more crumb of understanding "what it's about"....