Bobby Parrott

Went Quaabird a' Meeping

With Perpetuous Beatitudinals and a Squinkulous

Wink to Lewis Carroll and James Joyce

Aflirting his nesty the Quaabird did snipper,

his spindly longsequian knobbly legs pleeking,

before all the fluckus of nastybird jipper,

bespoiled and reboiled his quaaverbulous clipper.

The Quaabird with quavers afweeping in churple

amidst puffyfluffians of skychurning flux,

scrapsharky punktuffians besmarkling his flurble,

unsmoothing his crane legs, untailing his tux.

The fine tethered quickbiscuit atop the bird's gawker

turn jerksy and murksy by way of prefiction,

while ruffing his blinther to squail his new stalkers,

the bleakish birds squelched a chuffworthy infliction.

The darklings retrebled and splelted their drooly

with beakservice beedling no smarmish resnoot,

all skoached and asmacking their plathering foolry

postpoached with hotspurlings, their tendrigs kaput.  

"Forsnaking the vilest of wrigglesome frippians,"

the nightsmawking feathardly slammers did creech.

"Premarks your uncoothing of tailswarthing mimmikins!"

splied the fricksome punktuffians in backjabbing leech.

Went Quaabird a' meeping in mopeful regullian,

to gleep out the moonbird his lastmagined quaaiee.

The uncruesually blabberous and fracksome scandooligans,

foreswooned and foresweened his spunktiferous reply.

"Be goff!" bluffawed Quaabird in manticore squiver

'til feathers in tethers the bird bleared his black,

And disgorged such a “quaa” that their fairskins did skliver

in recoilicues boinkless, bleething squick to their squack.

Moonflowers in my Mouth

If a fire could burn backward, then why

would we need to send that mango popsicle

through the gentle furnace of your mouth?

And in the hot shower. Think of it–

The ubiquitous laughter of cyber-seagulls

has nothing to do with me. You can change

the caption under this frame any time,

like shark fragments, your spin off the deck

of a luxury cruise ship, plus the broken

piece of pottery dreaming of the tube

of glue erupts in fractals as your neck hits

the water. Of course your blue jacket

cloudscape shifts out of its godly state

just as all else goes horribly strong.

You've been here all morning with that–

that face. Just tell me again how the children

wake up and take over. Baby-men counting

heads and feet as they tumble through

the mosaic in the wall of the school

playground. It's title– Moonless Tulips in Fog.

The lunar blossoms purr like telescopes,

which explains why we're always looking thru

the wrong end. And the people–

so small, and so far into the future.

Bobby Parrott's universe frequently reverses polarity, slipping his meta-cortex into the unknowable dimensions between breakfast and adulthood. In his own words, "The intentions of trees are a form of loneliness we climb like a ladder." Immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, this queer writer dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule of Fort Collins, Colorado where he lives with his partner Lucien, their top houseplant Zebrina, and their hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.