I’m old most days. Learned to hide myself in my clothes.
I breach cadences with you of burliness and treacle,
flavors we have licked, Chomney, you Bando Quast!
Madge Flando has become soupy twixt her muffins.
She’s ready for us to dirty ourselves, prick our tips
and fill our creases full of rose hips—on a swindler’s ship.
Shaven man and woman pigs, sacrificial implosions,
with eager ears for obbligato, shall be burned like sage.
Guide Ms. Morpheme down by her earlobes
while she sucks it good. Never spake Zaron Thrust,
thunder smoke on garbage, as before. Peace is a lens shutter
capturing a joy, winked eye in the ruptured field
of human contact. Why did you not ease me down?
You’ve held back too long, Morg Hoglig. Bloodhound.
Our tongues make swagger with the ballast of hops.
We mad in the room, legs weak as chopsticks, drums
tumming a martial topographical flap, shaking and seeping
for a glimpse when she scoots slow. She slumbers,
full in her pot with angst for the jeering world. What hey!
Aim for me, leave no loaf unturned, you Storkon Magwop!
Remember when you were a boy and black clouds entered
from the East? The turkey vultures followed you on the ridge
but it was Sunday and the cliffs called, and you climbed
an easy way up a crevice to hear the water rush. I won’t
be blue always, cause the sun wobbles tight over my whore,
wiggling out of her pantsuit, working her gum, charging me
with infractions of superior light. Another world inside
the left-hand of our night, eking out. We couple like eagles.
Way we was born, Boggins Norlank, planks put down
on a Florida prairie, alligators flopped over the highway
in mating season, bereft of inner tubes, of egret snacks,
in this way we move as kids eroded on beer,
displaced tendrils of universal pomp. Left strictly
with bass thump, as if to smooth it: if you don’t want
to smell my smoke don’t monkey with my gun.
