SurVision Magazine / Mark Blaeuer

Perfection Everywhere

The omelet wore Velcro pajamas
after it won an award for selling a broken toy
in Great Dismal Swamp.

Venus bilked swordfish at the colosseum
until her epic slime
lionized some antiquated penguin.

And me?
Well, as Dr. Brinkley told one of his goat glands,
"Wipe that face off your smile."

Don't Look, Never Look

Again, the xanthic curvature
retirees seek through
glass.

A vagabond housed at
memory's igloo
drops in

for a pint, thus giddily remembered
some planned opus –
Weltmeister

accordion version of 1938's Encyclopaedia Britannica –
riches unto corporate had
spark

flared up madder like hills. Instead,
this interrogative
sunlight

hobbles toward the answer
idling in a mink
apron.

At the Grave of John Swingendorf

In a predestined flower
bed, I kneel to pick up a dirt clod that turns
out to be a concretion of coins, none larger than a quarter,
my luck changed. I pull the cluster apart, the coins pristine
with their little numismatic stands at base, the latest from 1967.
Some of the coins turn out to be magazines, from 1958, '56, '54 . . .
One of the magazines turns out to be an alligator gar, eight and a half feet long
and taxidermied, ready for wall-mounting. Swingendorf
was an ichthyologist, I deduce. Not to mention a film buff,
judging by 35 mm footage in the clump. He also was slim, with Brylcreemed
hair, a suit (narrow tie as bisector), and horn-rim glasses,
per dead reckoning. John,
you were John

and/or a telegram of platinum.

Mark Blaeuer lives near Hot Springs, Arkansas. His poems have appeared in Bluepepper, El Portal, Nimrod, SurVision, and Windsor Review. A collection, Fragments of a Nocturne, is available from Kelsay Books.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Ten MARK BLAEUER Perfection Everywhere The omelet wore Velcro pajamas after it won an award for selling a broken toy in Great Dismal Swamp. Venus bilked swordfish at the colosseum until her epic slime lionized some antiquated penguin. And me? Well, as Dr. Brinkley told one of his goat glands, "Wipe that face off your smile." Don't Look, Never Look Again, the xanthic curvature retirees seek through glass. A vagabond housed at memory's igloo drops in for a pint, thus giddily remembered some planned opus – Weltmeister accordion version of 1938's Encyclopaedia Britannica – riches unto corporate had spark flared up madder like hills. Instead, this interrogative sunlight hobbles toward the answer idling in a mink apron. At the Grave of John Swingendorf In a predestined flower bed, I kneel to pick up a dirt clod that turns out to be a concretion of coins, none larger than a quarter, my luck changed. I pull the cluster apart, the coins pristine with their little numismatic stands at base, the latest from 1967. Some of the coins turn out to be magazines, from 1958, '56, '54 . . . One of the magazines turns out to be an alligator gar, eight and a half feet long and taxidermied, ready for wall-mounting. Swingendorf was an ichthyologist, I deduce. Not to mention a film buff, judging by 35 mm footage in the clump. He also was slim, with Brylcreemed hair, a suit (narrow tie as bisector), and horn-rim glasses, per dead reckoning. John, you were John and/or a telegram of platinum. Mark Blaeuer lives near Hot Springs, Arkansas. His poems have appeared in Bluepepper, El Portal, Nimrod, SurVision, and Windsor Review. A collection, Fragments of a Nocturne, is available from Kelsay Books.
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