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Theory of prose | Nolan Allan

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).

About Nolan Allan

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

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