Jeremy Scott


we are the space opera! 
Jive off to verisimilitude	        we are the space opera!—
               inebriated reticent files	isolate the frequency—
               sloping foreheads,	dial into the base of things—
               sloppy kisses in my piehole,			
               we sing?—
                              you never know your breath before it escapes the plane—
               all-out tying knots in my stomach—
                              there is peace in the pain.
 


tea time for twenty
Taken hostage by alien life forces	        I am goodly—
               Experiment with brain matter 	typing is solace—
               You are tender and mild, 	        I am weakened—
               operate my past participle, 	take for granted Godhood—
               retirees on the doorstep: 
don’t leave them hanging—
               or badger the whale with your werewolf sonata—
               tea time for twenty on the links of your prison yard.	 
 


the dreams of ants
Experience the awakening of the acolyte,	        you are liver—
               take me away with the cowboys, 	        to the dawn we march—
               carpet stains in my satin breeches,	        I am dead, yet weeping—
               isosceles triangle in my mouthpiece, 	you are your principle, understated!
Guard yourself against the dreams of ants,	if only you dare to fall—
               integration is the key to the matter:
               barrier of the spoken word—
               holy of holies. 

 
	
tantalizing research into dinosaurs
Narrative in two parts,		medium-rare symphony—
               you are a strata,	        I am a wavelength—
               idiot flesh begins understanding my newness, presence—
In part and parcel to the novel we sing:
               tantalizing research into dinosaurs—
                              utilitarian shovel frisson—
               	Obadiah is my cousin in delinquency.
 


in the small space of San Diego
This is your brain on vivisection,	       quantum mechanics of lying—
               I didn’t know you were Ursa Major, 	in the small space of San Diego—
               opine the everloving reflex, 	I understand you now—
               you won’t regret the pizza parlor of yesterday—
               odds and bends in the universe scream out for tomorrow—
                              yet, I have a feeling you won’t forget them. 
	

Jeremy Scott is from Albany, Georgia. He's @possiblyarhino on Twitter. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming with Selcouth Station, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Gutslut Press, Fifth Wheel Press, weird laburnum, Scud, and others.

 
 

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