Catacomb Honeycomb/glenn r. frantz

I fully expected to be rained out
but the falling fish recovered
and muddy rats rose pharyngean
to smoke able birds.
It was public laughing
and the bees displaying their knuckles,
a slave fungi to custard metal,
while we sit sipping vegetable ichor in the Cheap Threat Café
hoping to manufacture a grotesquitated disgustacle,
murmuring insecticide and an order for eucalyptus
like luminous cats barking in the wrong craveyard,
penning a letter to a rocodiles
under shady herds of opalescent eyes,
and no sound but star-fishes and half-deserted infinity,
but it amplifies debris hard enough
to buttress electronic consumption.
In that glare absence,
my memory, hatched, fills the room
but there is a hole in the way,
a three-inch wide indentation in the air like this,
and you know that the ceilings weren’t too low,
just that the floors were too high
to hide secrets in –
the dungeons of the alleged cities of honey
over bafflinged abysses.