on dynamo Tuesday, when the clothesline dives through the nauseous sky
apocalypse of Vaseline ambience creeping through chicken-eyes
a view of the room as seen by the bedside lamp of the superhuman
the faux turbine of his dullness
our maid’s favorite thing to do: turn the baklava template into a coarse rug
who uncovered your identity, Sophie? How long did you think you’d be able to keep this extracurricular persona up? Tuesdays were your only day off and where were you?
the interior of which ‘perfect place’ did you hide hyper-articulating the curse of the white triangular sandwich?
comic books were the first to invent your prophylactic – my bad friend, in short, whom you helped me drop into the nuclear reactor
soon the earth turned into the backs of Sharon Osbourne’s ears, on which an echo was ulcerously overcooking…
TWENTY YEARS LATER:
our housekeeper has become such a powerful agent
though a devoted TRON fan since learning about the tungsten bowling pin
in his butt
by smuggling these and other downers into our dreams
all non-believers look pretty horrible when walking into the deli where you shop – they grow scales, forked tongues and weird mohair waistcoats
things have been looking pretty horrible since my cologne backfired, Sophie
you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?
why is it that above the street are suspended countless Hoover nondigestibles?
the dogs sneeze
do you hear them, Sophie?