noa lund

Eunoia. Bök. Review.

Alas, an apt hardback. Smart, savvy, and sharp...
And, at parts, a tad crass.
Ah, that wacky, snappy, blab.
An art that Prada, Zara, and Max Mara call fab.

Extremely sweet blessed text,
Enter thee, meek, freckled pleb.
Let me see the dense rhyme schemes,
The tenses, the hexes, the stems, the memes.

I mimic, I wink, I smirk, I think.
I sink, sitting in dimly lit bliss,
Riffs click, whilst pithy whims kiss.
Lips flit, miming dirty spits.

Oho, Bok! Oddly flowy for Toronto folk.
Not toff, not twonk,
God of word tools,
Typos... Not.
Oh, posh prosody,
Oomph-ology of yo books.

Uh, wut?
U sucks.
Dumb dumb, bum, bum,
Crud, just cut.

Untitled

One, two, a one, two, three, four;

If I were to love you more
Would I be a loving whore?
Or would I love appropriately?
How much is too much when loving thee?

Poem from Āna

The ground is of fallen leaves,
Feathers shed, tears wept.
Shrooms and bitter roots—
Dark and pragmatic.
...
The ground reminds one of time:
Unmoving, and certain.
Opinions of the old.
...
The apple hangs from swaying branch,
Dripping nectar.
What fell absorbed—
Little truths for earthly hell.
...
The Doubtful star hangs highest
Among God’s ornaments.
And sees furthest.