Ian Randall Wilson

An Aphrodisiac for Stuffed Animals

My museuse gives me lancinate
but my dyslexic ear hears lamination.
In an act of coning, we have moved
from serial drinking to that new kitchen
she always wanted, a place where
dogs fly among cadavers and I eat
Royal Jelly after midnight because it's all
I can afford. Let me pause
to tell you that Dr. Hoagly Woagly's
has the best avant-garde barbecue around.
You can denude your fingers with
sucking. Then, after a dinner of dissection,
we'll retire to the hyperbolic chamber.
You show me yawni
and I'll show you mine
if I still have one
when the contractor collects.
The temptation is to make a mountain
out of a molehill of money, to pull
things apart, one proton at a time, losing
the center, obese with a pain that lingers
long after tomorrow afternoon
has started betting with another bookie.
I'm going to demand a refund
from my museuse or at least
a full-body thesaurus. Something
with words:
A nostrum. A sleeping potion
for idiots. A dead man
and his flying dog.


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