Rosie, who's sixty years old? Don't shake that head.
It's me, that's who. I fake to present a happy balance
to a cake over ten. Dazed after waking to more dread
of homophones, abrupt parallaxis & inversion of chance.
This bughead sensation began of not getting up, words
taut after rising from stop to why drops. I also felt most
unbeing, troubled by spells that lasted seconds & thirds,
a marionette strung up & danced by a jittery ghost.
I steadied by bending back to upright after turning down.
That doesn't make me a perpendicular clown.
Rosie, I notice you spinning an untidy mistake by arching
backwards while pulling out eyes, evening drips by turning red.
You may recall a simpler epithet one earlier year, marching
itself & spinning away. I have no occasional watershed
to suggest past vestibulars would put up a fight,
nor temporal relationship between the aural & rain.
A cute virago evoked migraines & lust, hearing, loss & night.
Why must I grovel with my earthquake head & sunspot brain,
while you just sit there, a hydra, like three Queens of Siam?
You must think me the fool. Well it seems, yes I am.
Rosie, trilateral, why can't you see what you're doing to me?
By divination, I have no signs of decelerated craving,
no nostalgias at rest provoked by gaze, but a horizontal tree
impulse first, as the hexagram manically delivers high raving
crescendos in a homicidal plan to reassess my love for you.
With no evidence of a “catch-up saccade,” you believe in,
you engaged in my beating up, counterclock pas de deux.
I know you must think this is your way to get even,
making me dodge those sadistic white birds by the sea.
Rosie, can please you stop shaking your heads at me?
