The portfolio’s rite to galaxy

Reverence in spectacle
posterior health
I pitched your docuseries
to Netflix no response so
they must be funding
grasshopper farms.
Insect & Co. climbed
the stock market like
redbacks multiplying,
one journalist with some.
ginormous tortoiseshell
glasses advised us to
blot the company of its

canola spray cooking oil,
whatever that means—
& I guarantee the violas
nor the troubadours
will be halted. The sun is
capital, father, the sun
is as ultra violet as ever,
& our tap water is wine red
as Homer insured. When
I was little I asked God to speak—
Andromeda tickles humanity
with a jovial croak, because
brute truths are what’ll kill us.

**

Sacred hearts

I didn’t know that you were lonely. Perfect
tiptoes mark the first time for your fracture
apnea inhale— lucid like a wood post under a
mighty UV ray that was programmed to
curtain at glimpses of you. There are no
watersheds, no karma for the tears. I never let
a loved one down— would you like to trade
places? Feeling out your former palm
marks the first time for your accurately rendered
fruit stone anatomy. It won’t make a difference
if I crush an osprey between my
hands, it will warm up & drift like necks &
necks past my knuckles, to God knows where. A
nickname for ospreys is Water Hawk, you can
imagine an osprey guarding the tidal empires
& the beaches that are already capital.

**

Sexplanation

Blown out are the passionate
statuettes, motionless formaldehyde—
open them up & oil the hinges
don’t use a ladder for the size
of your own, reject size; objectivism
never existed in the first place
& the last place we found it was a
thought. Baby’s breath in the
walls kicked in & rented out like
surrogacy, their heads are
metallic limes, a symbol for seeds that
ancient things grow from— what
gearheads they were. So the assignment
is: read motile sound waves like
a blank toe tag, keep it blank so as to
keep the carcass a carcass, & you
materially sentient, record
the knowledge you blew out your
hand like a dandelion’s head.

 ——————————-

Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia & a best of the net 2024 nominee. Her poems have appeared in Overland, Many Nice Donkeys & more. She is looking to publish her manuscripts and runs the substack “Ladybug central” at dorothylune.substack.com