Taking shots

taking shots at the clay pigeon
to miss is to lose the contest
find yourself making soup unable to talk
when you die not only can you not bury yourself
but the final judgement is not what you can’t take with you

it is what you leave behind
finally, life becomes
about the abandonment of the object
the let it loose approach
reduction to a list

the wooden horses that cross your sacred moat
the sea of bent spoons and the river of applause
aching to get in to a sink cut into
to calm down the electric storms

he buried his hands into his coat
he bears himself as if into the wind
the sea flicking at his features and once
sturdy and full of pomp and wheeze
he lets loose a mighty voice yelling at the sail
his hot air drags them from the mark and into the wind

unleashing control letting the jennies loose and unfurling the mighty sheet
clipped thuds of electricity shudder on its tightening skin
the copper ringleted corners the ropes race though
as the wind tacked into momentum

he slid up unto his competitor but
flipped his lid and they watchas
as his majesty broke and his mana dissolves into the air

she smiled with a wooden intensity
the verbal correction would rattle
like forbidden wooden shapes
stored in yellow boxes
on the shelves

eminent corduroy clad butlers
stalk any insect that dares to escape
their nets on the ready