Self-inventions of sane animals
packed densely into safe-zones of airplane
propellant, inside big boxes of broken dreams
shipped out west. Roots that held the earth in place,
movement denied, a name that once exists
is now as a term for the deceased.
It's these drinks
that sink and creep
upside arms--hidden breasts
and broken crests.
It's a present first received by the rich girl
on her last major birthday,
one that occurs in sixteen-year bursts,
and every now and then will she get
a picturesque present of a gilded giraffe,
saying, "I used to be a single cell,
now my appetite is doubled wholly,
my skin sells itself to doses
of scrawny croaks and sorry
cloaks without dreams to destroy
or bury deep in holes and set to pirouettes of fire."

I heard better.
Movement is denied, and the silent sleeper
bangs with all his might
bacwards into the mind of a killer,
inwards into the trunk of his car,
that reminds him
of its cousin's crash-test dummy
broken into two like the pencils
from student-laden boarding schools.

I heard the dummies
floated through the scene in slow-motion
while men watched them dance in mid-air
again and again,
and to all those people that survive car (crashes),
they should think of them,
but those cowards chose not to feel and
remain indefinite,
torn apart,
only to be rebuilt into another dummy.
"You may practice on me."

Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian