this year, tachycardia just means my forsythia is gonna bloom faster than lillian gish portraying aÂ maharajah in stop motion animation.
whispering out dove feathers in a somber rice-paper delivery. what do i spy?
sunshine stovetop pit
sky-ocean reverse symphony and the
one cross-eyed tubist with their
squeaky delivery who hopped on the wrong
frisky delusions of somber turbulence in a
gravity-controlled weightless giant stalking hammerhead aerodynamically displaced with another familiarity
there is no fight or flight; this is deathstar. this generates vibes of each to the neighbouring passengers.
the head flight assistants teeth are blindingly white like sun leaks through the one tear in the lampless nighttimes ceiling; i wonder if she sold her body to the captain for this. risk turtle to tunnel vision.
weather collects brief love affairs with dust and mousetraps with ancient swiss cheese.
my musty personalities top-secret suitcase
sometimes all day
will punch alarms and break my anger-intolerant supermediator’s door down
will tear thru the molecular traffic light accumulation even if i try to stand still
askew when skin skids ripples when
flattopped rocks are skipped against surface
monochromatic pebbles key
and my wobbling muscleless limb of invisible cheap thin wood from a tree killed at age 17, secretly waving pleasing hellos to everyone that passes by. so much potential. so much distortion in the clarity of unreality.
thrifty breadsharer how dare you shake the 99cent store shoplifted snowglobe without permission? snowflakes are my favourite colour. they do not bother seagulls nor beauty lovers nor me.
zits without double-knotted tongue helium bubbles it is new years day at 1200am in my nose from the carbonated sludge from the enchantment spell the billboard placed on me in a big city whose laser beams flash without synchronicity to the thousands of radios in every open window. my laundry serves as my curtains in such a land:
the only purpose of clothes
well the motto goes
if it is cold outside,
your SMURF-SKIN BLUE jackkkkkkket!
a man is not a piece of laundry. he is a precursor for my population @one generation, a world-swallowing &persevering tempest. surrounded by our protective trenches &underground traveling systems, we fail to man up and look at each other.
baby daughter carried her dream-dna in a doll-sized baby carriage wearing a hood of ratty placenta-art.
i married a dolphin-loving body mod addict with his very own blowhole, so accidentally on a weasel-infested island, fenced in by bongo drum placement.
i need more dna, i thread with half-heart and lion yawns
oops. there goes another
peep quietly to edge of the tip-toe-only hallway.
the owl guard will spin his exorcist.
they’re both actors on the lookout for narcs.
reality is uncompromising with my high-maintenance demands.