Jonquille

Pale smoke is crackling and seeping into violet clouds,
head fish swirl on the tongues opening silent mouths
in protest against the incessant vacuum lung fire-
lists form on wood scrolling without touching skin
and eyes turn away towards sinking voids.
Your body looks like a conch shell and I post through the gaps
requests. All white in my mind. A fainting sensation pricks up vertigo in my soles
and kicks unexpectedly. Sharp spines curl into French curves
on television there is a man on a unicycle, tipping,
spokes twirling into candyfloss and murdering him.
Churning blood there are bystanders and without announcements
a bee walks by and beyond and instead I am not bored,
grasped by levitation and clawed by feminists I touch soil beside us-
it's pretty. Crippling doubt. Bad taste is not the worst thing that could happen.