8 am on a saturday morning

first you open your eyes
tenpence trove tantamount apricot
and it goes on
in transparent truculent trenches
of transmitter flechettes

day and night
light emitting diodes
telegraph pole sandwich countertops
days stream bits stream thoughts stream
extreme parakeet makeover
sex with a ten year old
tartan crocodile tooth require

in sleep or just in bed
or in bob jimmy bass
on the manic telephonic piezoelectricians
in D minor
you rewind the tape
clean out the crisper
and wait

but the sun still comes
in sodden sarcastic silhouettes
through sleet and sand
and then i read it forwards
and it all makes perfect sense