Boom Beach, Maine
︎︎︎ Nolan Allan
︎ NOV 22, 2021
Gutted lanterns leak yellow
oil like the needy
urchins my hands
pulled from the ocean, torn
apart before you. Us: beachside,
sky: gray, you: empirically
observing the cold
wet pieces I threw aside after
they drew blood
from my hands, you watched
in mild disgust, or
love, little difference
to be had, and not
that it matters but
my hands can still feel
how it felt to crack us
open the echinoderm to reveal
the soft pentagram
shaped sexual organ I
carefully removed and without
bothering to wipe the viscera from
my hands I swallowed
it down in one gulp and smiled and thought
about one day eventually
when all the seas will
rise and accost our cities
and one day eventually the sun
will grow and accost
our planet and one day
eventually the moon will fall back into us
when it finally realizes nothing
has the answer, except the only dream I
ever remember: a man leaning before
a crumbling black marble dais
on an endless stage covered in thick fur rugs
all decorated with pale roses and bundled orchids
already dying, in need
of water he slumps and rages
on his people's behalf against
the forever night's encroaching
memorandums and as he reaches
his apex, his kid icarus
moment, he retches and liquid
the color of old growth forests
spills down his chin, deep dark
viscous stuff that pools and stains
the thick fur rugs that cover the endless stage
the crumbling black marble dais
sits upon, him prevailing, refusing
to clean off the ill humour, avocado skin
colored bile built inside his own body
without a care in the never lasting world
we tried to make together, though
in keeping with this being a dream, unctuous
petals emerge from the flowers maddeningly, stop
motionly, growing and falling and growing
again, they pile
they/themselves beautifully
across the crumbling black marble dais,
matrimonial traditions taken
to extremes the crowd couldn't've imagined,
the crowd: they feast on songbird
drowned in stale cognac and eaten
whole: guts, beak, face, everything, often
served with mushrooms quietly existing under pine
needles, haloed omelet color flesh
imbued with the stink of red
cinnamon candy left in the woods
for centuries, the way we used to
smell, and if you're reading
this, it's too late,
and if you're still reading this,
you're probably thinking like
wow, this is a really vivid dream
he had and I’d be like yes, it was
a really vivid dream
I am having, wow is right.
.
oil like the needy
urchins my hands
pulled from the ocean, torn
apart before you. Us: beachside,
sky: gray, you: empirically
observing the cold
wet pieces I threw aside after
they drew blood
from my hands, you watched
in mild disgust, or
love, little difference
to be had, and not
that it matters but
my hands can still feel
how it felt to crack us
open the echinoderm to reveal
the soft pentagram
shaped sexual organ I
carefully removed and without
bothering to wipe the viscera from
my hands I swallowed
it down in one gulp and smiled and thought
about one day eventually
when all the seas will
rise and accost our cities
and one day eventually the sun
will grow and accost
our planet and one day
eventually the moon will fall back into us
when it finally realizes nothing
has the answer, except the only dream I
ever remember: a man leaning before
a crumbling black marble dais
on an endless stage covered in thick fur rugs
all decorated with pale roses and bundled orchids
already dying, in need
of water he slumps and rages
on his people's behalf against
the forever night's encroaching
memorandums and as he reaches
his apex, his kid icarus
moment, he retches and liquid
the color of old growth forests
spills down his chin, deep dark
viscous stuff that pools and stains
the thick fur rugs that cover the endless stage
the crumbling black marble dais
sits upon, him prevailing, refusing
to clean off the ill humour, avocado skin
colored bile built inside his own body
without a care in the never lasting world
we tried to make together, though
in keeping with this being a dream, unctuous
petals emerge from the flowers maddeningly, stop
motionly, growing and falling and growing
again, they pile
they/themselves beautifully
across the crumbling black marble dais,
matrimonial traditions taken
to extremes the crowd couldn't've imagined,
the crowd: they feast on songbird
drowned in stale cognac and eaten
whole: guts, beak, face, everything, often
served with mushrooms quietly existing under pine
needles, haloed omelet color flesh
imbued with the stink of red
cinnamon candy left in the woods
for centuries, the way we used to
smell, and if you're reading
this, it's too late,
and if you're still reading this,
you're probably thinking like
wow, this is a really vivid dream
he had and I’d be like yes, it was
a really vivid dream
I am having, wow is right.
.
Nolan Allan is an artist from North Carolina. His work has appeared in Peach Magazine, Prelude, Hazlitt, and many others. His chapbook ‘Mountain Dew’ was published by Bottlecap Press in 2017. He lives in a city near the woods and can be found online @nolanallan.