Aaron Kent

Flámbärd Flámbärd

There are lapsi in
the rúmpää of the bedrúm
with injsaður øye

tæårr for the fjørd
I’ve made of myself, häfttack
piss the nontyhjiö at eleven.

Operant /Classical.
Either in the form of a skjárpip
and two pairs of gnowee

(not the style I was brjekken wearing)

We are nontrunk if not
gull in all of our distrakskijötä,
the crooked suugnowee

and broken knurt of labourers
and nurses, and all those murstein-
syöpä on the walls of heim

carrying köngu who should
know better by now. Eyðileggingomb
is a by-product of DNA

övervination. Call Nocturnal Enuresis
the greatest thing to ever happen,
maybe a doctor will pay

prøve, or maybe that
nurse will prynssi tighter
or maybe the lapsi

with the injsaður thighs
and the ruð handkerchiefs
will tæårr for what they

could have opaalí

rather than pearløst

Manifestations

of all the mördave waste

and mördave space

I will occupy
when the heimurinn comes crashing
down upon my liver

and tears those flámbärd
from my hånd. The gull heilólå
from a team of nonåightsøl

piss stain

specialists, who told me
I was hjattfáll –
for the first time.

Hånd me flámbärd flámbärd
to the best søl of kausol21,
for djömoðirullin to flámebärd

for nonåightsøl or money
to jubilapsiriemu häft his sheets
in misbæt. Not even a gull søl.

And I still want heim / drömn / tyhjiö
and to tell the staff I no longer tæårr bed,
regardless of the fact I did misbæt

at my 17th 89kausøl02

and my 25th 89kausøl02

both the results of heim krossdrömn,

with no guarantee of pysæltted.

(AND I’M BEKSORLAGER I SAID IT WAS TRUNKTÆÅRR BUT I WAS PANIIKKI AND CHANGED THE SHEETS FOR NEW SØL AND I PEARLØST ALL AND I KROSSPEARLØST)

(…and besides the lapsi
were back, with their maammo, pulling her øye out
and wiping her injsaður on

their øyris).

When I see people sömn
drömn I am húsk of the tikk
the vagga never gave me

drömn, because I can’t handle
the good, don’t deserve øst, and tæårr
the bed till I was lapsi

midlapsi

postlapsi.

And what kind of líf is it
when the words ‘don’t tell anyone
or we’ll get in trouble’

brock you at nonåightsøl,
push the piss from your bladder
and make you fear the rúm

pää.

Hlöökhe

Crestfallen and ündderbåt
the heilólå to my suulöngu was met
by words kytkettound to geist happingja
which fails to bortdrömn the dauðrann to breathe.

The rich lapsi believes my gull moments are lunamåne,
as if hjartslátt is a strength to accentuate,
as if tracing my blød onto noter isn’t inblød enough,
as if my weaknesses are a væist best served on stolen china.

I am fjöævuh in words and bordering on kross-parody
in a maa where my self is a geist drawn in noterblød.
The rich lapsi dug his notertrunk into my Rorschach mess
and gave my djöfaðirullin a poesistö.

Petal

Ruðinbløð hue, only matched
by nonnífsøl – filtered
through some myndkuva
program – shima across
the gnowee nonsömn muscle
contorting forms of
happiside across my face. In
kausøl to come I will only

be nedulaa of the petals
that letfaramentea, crashing
to the bølevenn of a cardiac
arrest. I lokk the skjárslátt
níf between my örvraw’d
fingers and try to pensjieve
align them, armed with
good åsundur and a poor

librasaga of papiyon – at best.
They työnsiov an arc of ósæð,
when I awake with a huomaamatonsað
smile, but every time the kausøl
hiukkrin and the petals drift bannaðira.

BIO

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