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Nolan Allan | Electric Cereal

Author: Nolan Allan

Nolan Allan lives on an island and can be found on Twitter and Tumblr.

low tide is at half past noon and high tide is at half past midnight

I do declare that I won’t trust aliens
until one of them yawns
empathically
in response to one of us yawning.

Bruise shaped maps
leading me
astray over the divested
length of a lifetime, good riddance
(time of your life).

Topless cauldrons jam
packed with embers
and tumored hamburgers
flopping in like bellies.

Poisoned green
wood pregnant with pre-syrup
embedded in a Model T that drove
from Kansas to Kentucky in six days flat.

This is a reminder
that you are not original
and that you’re already happening
all over again
just like how flower petals keep appearing
in my teeth.

Aristotle’s Lantern

Quisitive squirrel faces
painted copper head
road chartreuse from associating with pine
tree pollen, clutching crabs
they’ve carried cross town
in cross stitched plastic bags.

An aromatic waft of burnt rubber
smack dab on some trash. Art Deco style
undies sweat glued to my skin
under mainstream star’s
light.

Some planets have two suns and crying
too, though this is rarer and half the time
it’s just me, vomiting mushroom liqueur
into a wizard’s bejeweled chalice.

Go ahead and demand
your own pizza, not unless
you buy and wear glittering black
dresses like a king would. Luxurious
lake waves lapping at your ankles, jealousy
filling up your chest as you consider
limpets and dried sea urchin
sex organs, discussed in hushed earth tones
like your grandparents talking about “the cloud.”

Theory of prose

A niche graveyard crammed in
between bulging cul-de-sacs, lined
with Charlie Brown Christmas trees.
Funereal odes whose participants provide
for you through the proper channels: aqueducts
of emotion toiling their idyll
days away from our mutual agreement.

The geometry of my spilled blood
reminded me of fermented
Brussels sprouts thrown like confetti.

A line of Moai statues
made not from stone
but from the stuff they use
to cover the outside of tennis balls.

Plastic coffee cups, their insides
fissured, analogous to the antique glaze
on your mother’s good china, seismic
activity personified Hollywood-style.

I’ve forgotten more than I know.

A nearly opaque fungus
oozes a sort of honey
which is also nearly opaque,
clogged with particulate matter
like my brother’s throat
in our childhood home.
Snapbacks and tattooed gentlemen
accost your plunging neckline
under a threadbare blanket
of distant suns.

Oral traditions doodled in white
ink on cocktail napkins
the color of avocadoes (corbeau).

I’ve always liked watching rain
drops slide together on windshields (coalesce).