Poetry by Joshua Martin

Meanwhile the Romance of the Chemistry Fizzled Out

Rip van Wrinkle, the dilated eyes, and the puffy nuisances largely avoided by the masterfully ponderous motion sensors. Rip dreamed of fluff. No skill required. All that made a sound could easily be targeted and, eventually, eliminated. Special orders were given, but Rip forgot to write them down and so they were quickly forgotten. Trash heap of bust!
Nylon crowns indicated a subtle movement away from realism and toward the absurd. Finally! How long had Rip been asleep anyway? Guesses flow in from out of town, ignoring the context, and shoveling shit into the mansions of the rich and famous. Celebrity culture made lips sneeze. Afterwards, he lost a lung.

The cruise ship docked beneath the Eiffel Tower. When Rip turned to press the button to go down into the catacombs, another necktie croaked. Not again! Frogs could not stop the flow of misinformation. Who could?????
Rip settled into a night of crisp drinking. Wary of restarting his lightbulb printing press, he drew pictures of rice cookers instead. Sometimes skiing results in death. Careful that you don’t look directly into the eye of the beholder. It’s regicide, it’s showtime!

Colorful light displays made landing the kite easier than ever. Elsa belted out showtune after showtune without worrying about correct pronunciation. No one cared. Listening never made it past lunch anyway. Elsa’s roller skates squeaked. Cordless power drills had poisoned their well. Varieties of cursive disappeared. How sad, Elsa wasn’t about to regret a whisper. Something vaguely vague passed through the room. The proceedings of the society of incompetents continued unabated year after year after year. To Elsa’s surprise, submarines were far more comfortable than she’d ever imagined. Storms cannot reverse themselves.

In a feat of acrobatic genius, Rip tore his brain fart. Elsa had been running in place. Suspenders do make lovely pets.
- Elsa, Rip smiled, are you willing to discuss the flight of the soaking opera singer?
Elsa shook her head pensively.
- I’m more interested in the plight of the toe jam study buddies, she responded.
- Ah, well, the furnace has finally died.
- Death comes to us all.
- And there we are, all dressed up with nowhere to go.
A treasured photographic illusion danced the Watutsi while Elsa and Rip held cucumbers above their heads in case of thunderstorms. Chance beats logic any day of the week. Now march!

A startling sense of cadavers blushing left the stadium in bemused silence. Beehive comas. Drop ceilings. Must everyone listen to such terrible music and at such a high volume? A hot air balloon drowns. The world calls for a boycott of ideology. Go stuff your theory into a hydrogen bomb and spin.

The washer/dryer combo sang for its supper. Elsa had two choices: flounder or stumble. She chose wisely. Thoroughly inundated with ghostwriters, the publishing industry had by now made itself completely obsolete. Rip found yawning therapeutic. Elsa drew mustaches on everything. Circulation was to blame for the meteor shower. Last dunce. First step. Even keeled parachute. Rip asked Elsa for a memento. Elsa scattered spiked lemonade throughout the land. Still life.

After wandering without a net, Elsa settled for an armchair.
- Rip, she said, did you notice how all the fluorescent lights around here make you want to choke an oil executive?
- Hmm, Rip pondered while opening and closing the door to the sponge factory.
- Well, Elsa observed, at least we still have the electric chair to warm ourselves by.
Rip was bouncing up and down, screaming about socialism and the weight of a bag of feathers. If there’s stream, there’s swords left to seek.
Elsa, lined with bugs, made a last-ditch effort at compromise.
- Can I really only ever heave ho?
Rip let that remark go unremarked upon.

The infrastructure crumbled. Yippee! A free ride!

Joshua Martin

Twitter: @jmartinpoetry

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