Moth Ears

There are hidden radio waves that guide
the dead from their early graves and I'm
growing my moth ears tonight, Mother,
my heavy body steers your way.

The solitude from the TV tube has
electrified my inner-nude and rigorous
maggots wriggle and play. Moth ears grow;
magnets make my coffin sway.

Can you hear my broadcast, Mother? My
antenna sits erect today. I'm willfully
wrong, despite being dead so long and
my ears ridden with decay.

But the ground is sour... since it's the
witching hour, phantom maggots glow
and spray this interlude of vicissitude
condensing lightning clouds flambé,

and power-surge my Moogie dirge
on rogue sparks shot astray.
Can you hear me, Mother? My
tower skeets in microwaves.

Let my message MASSAGE you, Mother,
and sputter the light within your gray.
Mount my spit, spritz and hover; let your
legs float away...

Mother, may I? I can hear you say,
"ride the radioactive gravy-tray."
...so I oscillate perflouroxide tides,
hitching slipstream static-popping nucleotides,

stuffing the vacuum, expanding the gate,
squelching inept-tunes which
might bridge the plates,
warbling screeches, and scanning-stutters

softly I hear through subtle muffled mutters,
"Myron..., 'mustn't make Mother wait."
My ears unmottle and unchelate,
I mash the throttle (and dissipate).