The New Aesthetic Poem by Jill Jones

You’ve heard this story before –
becoming unravelled in Europe
or assaulted in some roadhouse
but bold as nipples and booted.
Recovering with bourbon and red wine
in a soft room with a German
dissolving somehow at right angles
and falling off the frequent flyers list.

Or being born in a blood thrust
from shadows into that crazy moment
as a rocket strafes the moon
ghosting your hour of the dog.
It's a kind of domino effect
taken out of context
while babies murmur in the lagoon –
another supple peepshow.