Nolan Allan


I return from the pine straw
forest covered in oaky pollen and ready
to defeat you in a duel for the right
to your hand in marriage. I don 

a bird shit pattern button down shirt. Cinnamon buns insisting
that I’m a dynamo, that my energy could
power huge machines made to align
the celestials. Heckle bread until you feel better 

about how your butt is shaped
like an oyster. Tornado strewn
caterpillars crushed during my morning
run through the hole through the center
of the earth. Feeling such resentment 

towards flowers due
to how softvelvetycolorful
their outfits are, stay daydreaming
near the process of deep frying
an elementary school classroom
or maybe just some minnows, where it be
all mossy tombstones and calm 

Yucatán mornings full of mist
and dinosaurs and not full of meteorites. They smoked
marijuana cigarettes methodically, repetitively, the way a child would
calmly devour candy. 

A bodiless werewolf declares you
his liege, a vassal
for his consanguine court. Ancient 

scarabs lowing cowishly, wing
cases worn mirror-bright
beneath the dune’s pen. You can find me
in the tomb, almost
as warm as the womb, adorned
with a spider silk thong, whale tail
lashing against stacks of florescent
green crystals, ladies calling me
out and I’m all like,
“I like the sense of security 

drones provide for me and my country
-men.” But for reals, I am
just trying to release a mess
of lobsters into rain swelled gutters
full of clean st. water
in order to set into motion
a series of events that ends
up smelling like Teen(age) Spirit

Mutant Ninja Turtles. Small
squares float beside me, ravens listing
toward Odin’s shoulders, large
glass bowls filled with slow 

blooming air plants. Baby leeks
make kissy faces at each other
from alternative dimensions, while J-pop blasts
over a montage of hermit crabs
finding love in a field of scattered turtle
bones. Black storms shaped

like swan necks flowing over me
as I take a nap in an orchid’s jaw, immediately
thereafter making eye contact with someone
while tugging microfibrous undies out my butt, sniffing
dolefully at the tropically-fertile smell of something 

being spray painted in the morning. A deserted Super Nintendo
concentrates until it can imagine a world
where we all own a pet cloud, along
with a geometric eclipse and a fresh bouquet
of flowers (an infinity we can move 

from room to room) that an old dead moon can
really appreciate. Pretty patches of grass
root themselves on your bedroom
walls, reassuring you when you wake
in the middle of the night. Later on

I’ll construct a rock cairn
but instead of rocks I’m going to use all the times
I said “I love you” and you didn’t
hear me. My favorite new animal
of the 21st century: plastic bags 

rolling in the wind like tumbleweeds
beneath a siege engine carefully
picking up a baby bird and returning it
to its nest. A terrarium full 

of stalactites and stalagmites
that also contains a fiery jaguar paw
print and me, a reincarnated Aztec
princess whose arms are etched with glorious
deeds performed by her
ancestors: birds of prey
wearing tilt shift contact lenses, sharp eyes
like cream. Silver 

ring holograms projected
onto freckled fingers. I will wear the skin
of a bear and I will bleed a pheasant into
a cast iron pan already half-filled
with flecks of gold. My next to last
ascension involves a dance contest
taking place in the pot
belly of a translucent whale, because all of the above
organic buildings smell like decay.


Nolan Allan’s work has been published in Similar Peaks, Electric Cereal, glitterMOB, and theNewerYork. He lives in North Carolina and tweets here @nolanallan.

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