Dani Oliver

 Dani Oliver

No Fireworks

Look: I want to draw impractical furniture:
              which guts me to gurgle at you: it’s bottom-barreled:               
              that this is the extent of my passion: this inanimate impulse.

Somewhere inside me, there is a stool that topples over:           
              this is by design: the stool is wrongly weighted:          
              it exists to fall down: it has no interest in associates, butt mates.

Somewhere inside me, there is a wingback chair with actual wings:
              a vicious white wingspan flapping: it bloodies its visitors: its serrated feathers: 
              magnificent: it is magnificent: it becomes a thing of worship: a sitter’s totem.

When we drive out to the desert, I feel a futon inside me, full of spikes:
              a street sign flashes warning: No Fireworks in Arcadia: and I think: 
              good, the quiet: no risk of fire: but in my belly: such skewered upholstery.

When you hold me close, in a feasible bed, you say: I love you more than anything:
              I search for flame and only find the words: I enjoy our proximity:               
              and you almost cry because I’m so shit at this.

Look: there’s this need for senseless decor in me: to doodle it down:
              throw pillows made of stone, of wine: embroidered with the phrase:
              No Fireworks in Arcadia: I’m sorry: no fireworks here: not in Arcadia.