Cider Kit

John Myers

A left wing fell at the water:

Armed with sunshine, bound to collect what evening wears evening after evening: the river's topcoat; the cadence of water; cages; the eyelids; the wire coil that, cold as tinfoil, eats slowly the sounds of triumph.


Name of pantomime. Name of person receiving pantomime. Amount taken. Name of staff assisting. Date and time of administration.


The highly charged initiation when one is added to the interstitial map.

As the romantic:

Supple? Apply.

Big atlas:

Reunion torn by wind, you'll stay.


To watch the sky and sun myself.


Why I am in these wings a tattered bride.


I just saw in the wind a whistle whose arm is caught.


You pretend pretending is a pale purplish, pretend blue is a type of snail or a type of bruised, tender loving. I tell you about your blue pretending that you will love me, will disclose the moths about which summer is to eddy.

Dangers of the visionary system:

Next the cliffs repeat, grow larger, thinner, take up more and more of your coast. You become dangerous with them, brassysweet and rotten like the hive in the lion's chest in the Bible. So many ways to be a lion, you might say, maybe I still want you to be furtive, too bad, your furrow is too had. Had at. To be it, your furrow, can I please, I beg, I mean even if you sink fifteen galleons of sun not counting conflation.


Never cut off, the apple supply.


I realize I am one of them because the way they roost, I roost.


You seem a small and withheld color the trees pretend to have showed.


A map will always be representation and not reality.

Familiar menagerie, the:

An architecture the wind has hazards my depth perception and to respond remedies the Icarus emergency: Three weeks and no one yet has broken. You could date without panting false narratives. This is the only statement you leave; the question remains. Do you?


Mildred, the weekend is calling the way I want to in a flourish marry you the evening when the wind asks after my blankets have all been confetti pretend yourself a crowd in the rain and desire a string of peppers I grow to be prepared for desire my teakettles whistle for you to come over here I beg you to when I see wool sweat and tip into chips of light in water broken on your perfect shoulders and their elemi of patchouli under rust and lightning I stayed the evening my wings grown to throw back.

Finish line, the:

Is as lemon as a glissando long anticipated.


After so much height do you look at shine the way you look at trout. You do, you do like your coast is dangerous.


Even intervals of lucidity scored in graphite.

Icarus emergency, the:

A wax abacus comes apart. Wings, feathers unherded. Rust. Arrested orison.

Injured Lenore, the:

By jags of copper, as it is, undone hives at every corner; maple tree at the one. To practice kisses.

I was the mirror effect:

I was the mirror effect of knowing what I look like for I am never alone in all this surveillance. Pardon my knowing what I look like from all angles because of the prophecy my blood travels wrist to wrist, rubs, marbles the snake flectives I am.

In brighter alcohol:

Some people hinge lightly.


If it were rejuvenation, my body a length sympathetic to your turret of crows, my fifteen inferences I pass I know in a sink for her boy. Is no tunnel this entire pear. Help me out and here, hurry is unacceptable. Don't ask me what relationship.


I beg for bodies to tether. I list. A shift I call blurry lapses blurry.


My diorama catches on the ahnk of light on phantom feathers missing the birds whence they gat.


Let us be a parade. Marching in Place.

Lossy algorithm:

A term describing a data compression which actually reduces the amount of information in the data, rather than just the number of bits used to represent that information. In other words, a scheme. In another, tame.


The peculiar claustrophobia of dating someone who shares your first name becomes less so when no devastation astounds. The smile I hide inside my ear tells me it does not matter, the spectrum of the cider hostess tells me it does not matter, the horse astounds like no devastation I ask you about your homely life before all the forest, before the orchard, even.


On the outside I am given to wag and, so symptomatic, to ail.

My gavel:

As a come on and as sour and as common as performance. What unbutterflies you.


We have come to bear your assault, at first blind stone then freshwater pearls made of pansies or held by them, legs excluded wind excluded. We have come to in the body thumbed for answers: the river numb with nectarines or a lemon bit white. Already the space in between parses land and landscape, air and sly, cloud or potential, our calliope of hot air tends to rise and threat, portends thirst. We have come to cursive your chin, its rapacity a secret or an egg breaking. Deer wreak twigs to tend high blueberries or a bonfire crackles if both the fern and its underside spiderstippled with spores stand out like the Cheshire in everything. We have, magnetless, come to tempt this series of fences which, on further reelection, is a phosphor troubling to get across or out of or over.


A diction we afford stretch. What red (a preferred spectrum) is not bright?


Pretend the audience is actually full of streamers, Margot Diamond says, or anything untested.


When my gavel enlivened. Where I love heaven. Put heaven here. Then left to rot. Then bundled. Bundled.


You and I together came into this horrible Place where I can jump all beargrass, but you have not yet learned how in lubricity you have guests like a drunk, role-red, who will not keep pitted. Did they make you take their survey, bless you with salt and vinegar, study to be a sex object?


Some people jog. Not us.


The ribbon my body pulls from you as a dulcimer, my infatuation and its comfort they say has too much pollen and so is rent, so roused so minnows themselves are ribbons your brass light sold. Wishy, I feel I shift.


You had better adapt to my inkling whose laugh is gorgeous and shy.


Having been bundled, I was obviously handsome, often in my strawberry and near the wreck of defensive bugs you rope the sky with, taught to approach the parking lot while pretending to be a coil, hirsute. Also, though still, rust in the belfry is at length unavoidable.


The Ron he watches is as fit a villain as those foiled.


Rustling wanted the Cheshire in everything to supply its own apples. And beguile.

Rust in the belfry:

The rain outs a shine of jelly sun-up.

Rust in the belfry:

In the bayou.

Said sail:

Moving that ply.


Moth along, nightmoths, silver with the peace of hundreds of thousands of miles of light I've always looked to when my own shores are on fire and seductive and craters are small narcotica.


Without them, Beverly is most imperious.


Hum and look, to morning succumb people like flowers, and with them, iodine.


What any drunk smells of an evening. The coast, whose marigolds could comfort had we anything to astonish them, became my given false identification, my choice of pantomime, what I began again to smell post shudder and, thatch willing, so will you.


For its birthday, our tumbler wants a pantomime of the Cheshire in everything; the snapshot we wag shines in accommodation.


Was I extravagant.

"Dinner is served":

The butter roast mini onions I desire some pleasant chill to feel warm after.

John Myers lives in Missoula, Montana and he has a blog called Ineffectual Effigy. And a cat who calls herself Miss Monica.