Up to her triceps in moisture wraps

Up to her triceps in moisture wraps
by Smokey Farris

Up to her triceps in moisture wraps
Spiraling hair snips, crash the face
Devastate the eyebrow lines.

Her dad is here, moreover, he has a six-pack.
The newborns are having a party
for their Jewish mother.
She dates a gay midshipman from Venezuela.
Who wears diapers to bed.

“The government will kill you,” He says.

For speaking aloud about prostitution
and identity theft.
Why is the government moving out?
Are we invited?
The government has a blimp fleet
With jet engines
And neutron information bombs
That can erase all the tracks
On your ipod!

While the “prez” slips slowly into a new body every minute
His disguise kit gives up.
He’s a sheep herder pigmy girl
one minute
and a swashbuckling Viking
the next.
Saturdays after listening to cartoons
he dresses up like one.
Which one depends on his mood.
He looks like Mel Gibson right now,
dressed as a pilot.

A gesture of silence
For the missing cut of steak
Digested whole
atop pictures of past dreams
under a puddle of milk
beneath puddles of oozy milk.
The oral grip of pups
extracts a diet from that of their milkmaid.

Which dreams come true
3 x’s further in my mind
as bolts shoot off the wheel
of the stolen dump-truck.
With a bed full of maggots
undergoing metamorphosis
and releasing
little baby midget sparrows.

The cost of Polaroid is going up.
It’s getting harder to get shots
like that.
Now that I ‘m forced to fantasize
all the time
the need for good recollection
has become ever-present.

The drugs I take to stay awake
to replace
the induced hallucinations
that I have been so lucky to avoid.
With waking nightmares I could never forget
increasing in frequency.
A dot in the ceiling has made trouble
for me.
Connect the dots doesn’t make sense.

The war lords have risen from the ant mounds.
Timber-cutters of the nuclear wasteland
Rise up against us
make the dinosaurs look like
melted dolls
waking up in the rain.

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