by Ljubo M. Popovich
Unglue your eyes, television,
From my eyes.
I’ve haggled with your gewgaws,
Been molested by your static freeze
As I sweated out undreaming nights
Beneath the kid-sister moon,
As I, hopped up on pixel-dust,
Guffawed at lingering infomercials
Patterned after abstract expressionists.
Your hallowed tubes filter into me
As I crackle knuckles in my toes,
And my liver quivers at the thought of you
And all your innuendoes.
Copyright © 2018 by
Ljubo M. Popovich