John Bradley
Hurlforth Parrots: Thirteen Aphorisms for the Everyday Apocalypse
If you call aspirin peaches and peaches ice cream, then what will you feed your headache, which demands to be called the devil’s bowl?
*
There, said Billie Holiday, pressing a finger to my forehead, and I could see bees, bees forming a smoking wheel that turned slowly toward me.
*
Shove a house off its foundation into a river, or off a cliff, and how soon a cello will grow in its place, noted Thaddeus, after he was a crow.
*
Beginning next month, one eighth of every automobile tire must be reforested forest or dedicated greenway.
*
One of the reasons for the increase in memory loss, notes a recent study, has been the growing number of geese cluttering our retention ponds.
*
I am almost certain, said Hercule Poirot, sipping his hot chocolate, the spirit of a dead Dada artist named Hurlforth Parrots lives in my right pinky finger, and he keeps telling me, “Ruin no opera rain.”
*
That’s no scrap of petrified Gouda. It’s a sliver of the moon you bought from that antiquities dealer in the dark web.
*
I prefer the comfort to be found sleeping on stream or river bed, said Thaddeus, long before he told us to call him Thaddeus.
*
I ordered some fish socks, she told me. And I wondered, were they socks to fit around a fish, or would her foot fit into the fish like a sock?
*
A faded form followed me all the way home in the fog and never once did it tell me, Winter is a book with pages too heavy to turn.
*
All those shoelaces on the plate, cooked in olive oil and kerosene with such care. How could you say no?
*
Your voice, she said, it’s a friend, a fiend, a glove, a Glock.
*
Now recline yourself across the top of those poplars and float off to that place from whence you came.
Order. Transition. Power
My mother, fallen, falls asleep on the floor, listening all night to the grand piano breathe “Moonlight Sonata.” Build a cage contoured around the body, with a small door for the mouth, so that birds, riding the breath, fly in, fly out. Violence and vandalism have absolutely no place in our country, said the inciter in chief. The tongue a beast with no legs, one eye, many wings. A beehive in his britches, Pa buck dances about in black face, in the banned pages of Little Town on the Prairie. From the Book of Ambient Consequences: When soil becomes soiled, when flesh begins to blur, when breath reeks of rotted wood. As the ex-president ambles to Marine One, the Crystals sing: He hit me, and it felt like a kiss. The tongue a beast with twenty-four hammers, no teeth, one stillness. Come back to the raft, Huck honey. A raging airless river somewhere below. If I spoke, heavy objects would heat. Iron implements would fall out of your bed, mumbles the gurney in the hallway of a Covid-19 ward. View only underwater: Photograph of the National Guard sleeping on the floor of the Capitol. Underwater: The unwashed body of Ashli Babbitt. Things shouldn’t be getting this evil, says a D.C. homeless man. From the Book of Ambient Consequences: When sutures begin to break into psalms, when participles dissolve into particulate matter. The tongue a snake with thirteen wives, twenty-six hearts, one claw. My wife on the sofa reading the New York Times, every article, typo, well-behaved verb. The tongue a beast with five ice picks, one lock pick, no thumb. No one in the republic safe from the steam rising from the raging river. That surgical mask on the sidewalk a letter addressed to itself. Listening all night to the piano breathe Chopin nocturnes. Dried rose petals in the medicine cabinet. Stars raveling, unraveling. Come back to the raft, Huck honey. The tongue a beast with three-thousand-sixty-five insomnias, fifty-two-thousand amnesias, one ear. We will be back in some form, say the spores of the out-going virus. The heart burrowing deep within. To see you through.
John Bradley's poetry has appeared in Alligatorzine, Calibanonline, Cloudbank, Diagram, Hotel Amerika, Otoliths, Sulfur Surrealist Jungle, and other journals. He frequently reviews books for Rain Taxi.
Hurlforth Parrots: Thirteen Aphorisms for the Everyday Apocalypse
If you call aspirin peaches and peaches ice cream, then what will you feed your headache, which demands to be called the devil’s bowl?
There, said Billie Holiday, pressing a finger to my forehead, and I could see bees, bees forming a smoking wheel that turned slowly toward me.
Shove a house off its foundation into a river, or off a cliff, and how soon a cello will grow in its place, noted Thaddeus, after he was a crow.
Beginning next month, one eighth of every automobile tire must be reforested forest or dedicated greenway.
One of the reasons for the increase in memory loss, notes a recent study, has been the growing number of geese cluttering our retention ponds.
I am almost certain, said Hercule Poirot, sipping his hot chocolate, the spirit of a dead Dada artist named Hurlforth Parrots lives in my right pinky finger, and he keeps telling me, “Ruin no opera rain.”
That’s no scrap of petrified Gouda. It’s a sliver of the moon you bought from that antiquities dealer in the dark web.
I prefer the comfort to be found sleeping on stream or river bed, said Thaddeus, long before he told us to call him Thaddeus.
I ordered some fish socks, she told me. And I wondered, were they socks to fit around a fish, or would her foot fit into the fish like a sock?
A faded form followed me all the way home in the fog and never once did it tell me, Winter is a book with pages too heavy to turn.
All those shoelaces on the plate, cooked in olive oil and kerosene with such care. How could you say no?
Your voice, she said, it’s a friend, a fiend, a glove, a Glock.
Now recline yourself across the top of those poplars and float off to that place from whence you came.
Order. Transition. Power
Even though I totally disagree with the outcome of the election, and the facts bear me out, nevertheless there will be an orderly transition on January 20th.
–Donald J. Trump
My mother, fallen, falls asleep on the floor, listening all night to the grand piano breathe “Moonlight Sonata.” Build a cage contoured around the body, with a small door for the mouth, so that birds, riding the breath, fly in, fly out. Violence and vandalism have absolutely no place in our country, said the inciter in chief. The tongue a beast with no legs, one eye, many wings. A beehive in his britches, Pa buck dances about in black face, in the banned pages of Little Town on the Prairie. From the Book of Ambient Consequences: When soil becomes soiled, when flesh begins to blur, when breath reeks of rotted wood. As the ex-president ambles to Marine One, the Crystals sing: He hit me, and it felt like a kiss. The tongue a beast with twenty-four hammers, no teeth, one stillness. Come back to the raft, Huck honey. A raging airless river somewhere below. If I spoke, heavy objects would heat. Iron implements would fall out of your bed, mumbles the gurney in the hallway of a Covid-19 ward. View only underwater: Photograph of the National Guard sleeping on the floor of the Capitol. Underwater: The unwashed body of Ashli Babbitt. Things shouldn’t be getting this evil, says a D.C. homeless man. From the Book of Ambient Consequences: When sutures begin to break into psalms, when participles dissolve into particulate matter. The tongue a snake with thirteen wives, twenty-six hearts, one claw. My wife on the sofa reading the New York Times, every article, typo, well-behaved verb. The tongue a beast with five ice picks, one lock pick, no thumb. No one in the republic safe from the steam rising from the raging river. That surgical mask on the sidewalk a letter addressed to itself. Listening all night to the piano breathe Chopin nocturnes. Dried rose petals in the medicine cabinet. Stars raveling, unraveling. Come back to the raft, Huck honey. The tongue a beast with three-thousand-sixty-five insomnias, fifty-two-thousand amnesias, one ear. We will be back in some form, say the spores of the out-going virus. The heart burrowing deep within. To see you through.
John Bradley's poetry has appeared in Alligatorzine, Calibanonline, Cloudbank, Diagram, Hotel Amerika, Otoliths, Sulfur Surrealist Jungle, and other journals. He frequently reviews books for Rain Taxi.
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