The Monday Poem: What Violins Sing in Their Bed of Lard

What Violins Sing in Their Bed of Lard
by Hans Arp

the elephant is in love with the millimeter

the snail dreams of the moon’s defeat
his shoes are pale and purged
like the gelatine rifle of a neo-soldier

the eagle owns the motions of a mind’s-eye void
his piss is speckled with gleams

the lion sports a pure and racy gothic mustache
his hide is calm
he cackles like a splotch of encores

the crayfish owns the raspberry’s bestial voice
the apple’s cunning
the prune’s compassion
the pumpkin’s lascivity

the cow takes the parchment path
last in a book of flesh
whose every hair weighs a pound

the snake jumps pricking and pricking
around the dishpan of love
filled with arrow-pierced hearts

the butterfly buttered with straw becomes a butterfly in straw
the butterfly buttered with straw becomes a big butterfly
smothered and pappaed in straw

the nightingale pulls heart-stomachs from gut-brains
that is to say the lilies of roses from the carnations of
the thumb holds its right foot behind its left ear
its left hand in its right hand
on its left leg jumping over its right ear

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