Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

four poems

David Lau

Savage Detectives and Suicide Girls

The parasitic situationists lasted ten years.

They captured the colonel with a blow to the head.

They clanged with illusions like a street fair.

The coast was proxy war zone of pleasures, fears.

They mimicked the painted, elaborate dead.

The parasitic situationists lasted ten years.

They came after the end of the Party. It ever nears.

They left raw marks. Stoke, channel, harness. They branded.

They clanged with illusions like a street fair.

They sought the police who wanted some ears.

Autocorrect is a bitch, they said as they snitched.

The parasitic situationists lasted ten years.

These years turned, made them harmless like gears.

They feared every new war; ascetic, purified,

they clanged with illusions like a street fair.

Its jawbone for sale, their future had just a few spears

of grass to eat, consumed by fire they administered.

The parasitic situationists lasted ten years.

They clanged with illusions like a street fair.

How Their Juuls, Vapes, and Phones Were Dirty

Steely, dirty, the moon crosses the reeds in a pond

the second dream of the high-tension line step

down transformer, the 5G Literary Guillotine.

Stoned with interference,

she wandered the lawn recited verses dawn.

She was up next day not till night, four days that way

until she dug her grave at the pound. Where

the wine was traditional, she wore a party top.

Later she showered against the artificial

rain wall at the mall. Commercial

rates were down. When I met her

she showed me their phones for a time.

Image: they were crowded outside the white-collar office,

image: they were leaving the factory

in overalls, image: they were writing in a mental

institution in Beijing near fields

in their fifth month of a sequester,

image: they were concentrating on the maiden

of orchid blossoms. The gauze of killer

silk and fish scales revealed her

posts about kids and fuchsia bulbs.

An assassin surrounded with idiots,

she soaked up a white concrete sun

like the ocean deprived of waves.

Passionate winds of internet affect called

out to her from a path

through the wall of ping pong tables. Nothing

but parties, she sucked on the lit end of matches

for the cologne of a candy star. The world was quiet

her last night while she disfigured their stones.

Canonical Form

Your family lived in the surgical mist

protected by a layer of city. Different

districts, brick steps in the park

the neighbor Egyptians coded,

were blazing to touch like

this smart city’s pixels

beyond the edge of the gameplay.

In the crumbling industrial region

your camera penetrated a surface water falling

from a rocky cliff. No below, the now’s

outlawry left on a swift horse out of plague town.

Grand theft was gently anti-Cartesian,

the old phone against the new phone.

Breath of a Wok

Time travel on the way to the market,

river tempo, eddy, whirlpool,

knife in the left-handed apiero—

you end up earlier than before you begin

but unable to start over, April Theses,

wormholes, Jacobins

drink bad beer and sleep rough

on the floor of a super-civilization.