the pilgrimage of toad boy

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, August 21, 2011 Under: Poetry

Who can almost hear the imperfections
on the master toad’s battered lymph nodes?
I hear he took some Adderals and felt better instantly

Whose googly eyed drill sergeant guzzling toadspawn
swallowed frag grenades to save lake swans on a daily basis?

Who’s the nomad home renovator
with an onyx lawn mower and a magnum opus on a stick
roastin' brimstone roof shingles for the hell of it?

deviated septum, shit for brains
an unusual fondness for corduroy pants
the town bullies shoved him in the creek water
gave him his generous coat of sewage gentiles
Along with a tadpole sweater sewn with mitochondrion yarn
a necklace of bubbles made from yak teeth and corn rind

Photographers have tried to capture his eyes for years
He had fly eyes, these beady cyclopean goggles
that could capture ambient light storms, reflect rainforest anthems
making graffiti airborne with it's interchangable train buffer lenses
what it'd take
to live a half life that most post apocalyptic wanderers would respect


Because these are…
dark days for Reginald’s plantation
and his misunderstood underearth underlings
those synthetic slivers
still giving me the shiveries
whisperin' Wicca over the campfires of northwestern nephilim
herdsmen with their tongues cut out, antennas severed
- yet they, like him
still sought for something concrete that man would remember.

A house named Asgard with no porch light
no running water or spiders playing dice in the cellar
wet mahogany lizard flesh slithering amongst the mustard seeds
on grass grizzled by weeds, tree stumps, scattered stones,
the bodies of the children from Where the Wild Things Are
and dented Coke cans pregnant with birth control pills
all paraphernalia of a declining circus state
they all paid the price when they tried to purchase fate..

People must still be entertained…

His tongue constricts on a homemade lollipop
with a small bird’s warm, blood pumping body
wings & all
wrapped onto a cotton candy sphere;
as soon as the humming lung popped
his tongue constricted
and the woodlandlord vowed to never return
to the place where the shadows don’t shine
in an under populated city where they can’t be crime

In : Poetry 

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