Patricia Wallace Jones

Beyond the Phrase Book


The plume of my aunt is under the table.
My soul like a raddled feather feels.
I’ve gone as far as I am able.
My hovercraft is full of eels.

Das Bahnhof (as always) is gleich nebenan,
but I still pray to know what the hell is
worth an acrobat’s fart or a tinker’s damn:
Ave Maria, plena anguillis.

Nothing that’s left is really right.
Our savoir vivre is the worst kind of mess.
The meaning of life has hove out of sight,
takusan unagi ippai-desu.

The glow of the Rapture is over now.
They’ve cracked the last of the seven seals
yet we stand here, awestruck, wondering how
the hovercraft got full of eels.