Flying T-shirt

Flying T-shirt
by Pat A Physics
Thrust pack bent up stair castle without limitation for pond scum
you are adding up your tolls in a vat of preserved air particles.
Labels are peeling off by themselves in your underwear band.
And touches of larceny highlight your study with manners on hold.
Gifted little decoys appoint themselves in the pond for you.
Anyone know if it is duck season, deer season, polecat season?
If it is polecat season, I need to get the fuck out of dodge, man.
Use my batteries up for projects that benefit philanthropic sullies.
Barf muppet hanging on the hat rack scared the silhouette out of me.
Again, it’s my over active mind, trying to sting my hidey-hole impasse.
Stinging, hurting, ouch, boink, and my hands pop bubbles in mid-air
jumping over candles to reach the doorjamb sticking inside the laundry.
Tickle spots emerging, sticking to my belly button inconveniently, ugh!
The visitor is singing about thirty-six babies dead in the four car garage
and the record is playing backward about marigold pinata touch
inside AREA 51- no pinatas with human forms were collected there.
Children ate my chalk, swords fell in the history museum, and tin bowls
clatter in the pale, speckled bodegas on the afternoon stroll. Love me.
Of course, in time you will see it’s the only way to be as happy as I.
Love me. The paper is stacked high, the hands change the paper, uh huh.
The paper means something that it is not. Summary papers are present.
And the symbolism is dancing with the expert’s little princess baby.
Her name is not slumbering, it’s on their tongues, ringing into microphones.
On billboard sky crime kingdom porch torture weight bait so long, long.
The tonal party bulletin straightens the chief’s angry wrinkle out nice.
Let’s purchase the things with expiration dates, let’s purchase, buy, sell,
limit me, limit me, take my line and draw me with your pencil. Draw me
right up to the trap door. And I’m falling. I’m dying. Commitment.