Poem for People

Prannic Squid Named Laura

for Lowell, Meredith, Tim and John Coltrane (Individually then all together)

Meaning, reality, perception, communication, feeling, connection: Do these things exist as we think they do or do they have an independent existence separable from what we think? What do we think is going on and what is really going on? Big questions, unanswerable questions. There is more going on under the sun than we dare to think. Or no matter what we think this will remain true.

Butchered Switch is proud to present this post as a remedy or further confusion of these questions.

Seeds borne to foreign

cities floating silhouette and throat

singing in the sky

under the sun and the evening,

going with and meeting scoundrels.

This is where insert your memory.

Your stories recall

unseen places, patterns of behavior and

sexual existence

spoke over smoke in sunglasses

with an air, something in the ear

rings heavy, all

not as it seems.


this idea of creating

reoccurring pain

through interaction with scoundrels

we draw to us somehow.

more than luck, we want.

we do not want. Bang,

split. that’s it.

we are all Laura Palmer.

doubles. multiples.

the multiples are, but do not, can not, meet.


swirl and sift,

like grades of fuel,

above our crude, the ghost.

The smoke of our self

burns up the chimney.

Breaking placenta of space

into pranna,

the thick invisible

formless realm,

bridged to ours by a rope

tethered to the skull’s crown.

A tentacle, if you will,

dragging along down on the bottom of the sea,

dangled lazily by the giant prannic squid, named Laura,

measureless mass the size of our mind

space, tangling

all their tentacles together,

telepathy is the electricity traveling these channels,

it can happen that the body gets a whiff

a glimmer of this orgy,

but the totality or scale we can’t fathom.

The squid drag us,

they are big balloons with just enough air to lift us onto tip toes,

skirting the turf,

no control

going and doing what we do not want,

hence Laura Palmer Syndrome,

hence we stress

our innocence.

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