An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
JohnHarold, Dog Breeder, 10
I am a portmanteau the way
my mother is an embezzless.
4-H clubs, kennel plaques.
One Malalab for every
to cash our checks.
With Dalmadoodle we pose.
Mother as meek bookkeeper,
me: intrepid and Rex.
The muzzle on a markup
Alpo to an accountant,
what heads for hybridity net.
Each seaboard a dye job—
we set dewclaws on one
tinting the other.
In kibble we dabble.
Mother gets her Miata,
a nose I splice. Pedigreed,
not your Mastidor's
Confessions of a Wunderkind Plumbing Magnate
Show me valve genius
I'll give you rotten macramé,
a TED Talk netting the two-ply,
clogs far-flung. Not that celebrity's
a scuttle, but my mother was Miss America,
49th runner-up. I'm a Roto-Rooter, then
a voter casting opinions on a drainpipe
asking how you de-mildew ennui.
Of all the moguldoms—
the tween in photovoltaics,
the CEO selling water
a Sweden-flag blue—
my talent lay in tanks,
of a bidet debut.
Sensational isn't sewage,
but there's a brass underbody
for every Carnegie Hall,
a requiem in an aquarium,
Fisher-Price: My First Cult Deprogrammer
Doomsday pays my allowance.
The millennium, a guru reneged.
I do unscrambling on indecisives.
Extirpation, all in a belief's work.
Gurus reneged on the millennium—
discipleship never goes as planned.
All this work, extirpating a belief. I
play with Hello Kitty, followers' heads.
Religion never goes as planned,
the wayward covered in magazines.
With head followers, the hell-kit.
Combustion leads to messiahs,
magazines covering the wayward.
I unscramble indecisives, those afraid
messiahs combust as leads. Reti-
cence, the doom allowed per day.