mix a cup of water with the dance of death,
stir occasionally, sometimes go in depths,
never listen, cry big spheres of tears,
and in conversations attempt to sound clever.
Bicker brains apart, brand everything
you can touch, be that cat that pisses
so much like heartbeats frequent like that
disease on TV where a man fleas a film
screening to go screaming down the
hall for a urinal or a bathroom stall and then
blows up and his pieces fall on his wife’s face
blossoming in an orgasm fastened to the posts
of a bed in dreaded though fucked past limits,
stained hands, hurt heads, trivially tripping,
laboriously lost, no cause for cryptic cycles of
thought, have you been bought on clearance?
50% off, 75% off human cleavage, beavers,
dicks and various spigots, litigants, and trailer parks,
purple pants, lemon scents, tread on threadless garments,
so far so fearless, reading my words is like my brain has farted.
How does it smell to you?