Monday, September 04, 2006

#134: September 4, 2006

The pods are raining down from outer space--
their fiery tails trace atmospheric burn;
thousands of extraterrestrial sperm
ejaculate from their moon-shadowed base
aimed at our egg-like Earth. They pierce the land
and from the smoking holes sprout purple roots;
leaves like ships' sails spring from skyscraping shoots
topped with onion-shaped bulbs. This phallic gland
emits a perfume never smelled before
by earthly insects--an ammonioid scent
spiked with ozone. Whatever beast it's meant
to lure is one our planet never bore.
No green thumbs among this invasive horde,
lucky for us. Back to the drawing board.

This sonnet appeared in the print publication Dreams & Nightmares #82.

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