how do you look underneath, coke pastie?
what colorful wart-roots, flagella, wires and stringlets hang and writhe from your equatorial saucer?
Joseph Conrad called you the catalyst behind the caterpillar sailor/writer's evolution into a sleek, shimmering hyphen
did you sprout the burp of sainthood
as accidentally marked/branded/boxed/exported/anally
finally canonized country-western lyric?
oh, the passage of its distillery – pock-marked pirates Autotune-chewing;
they've kindly assisted Molly's fusion with marshmallows;
philosophic pagans in penile smoking jackets –
pretty sure this scene was killed by a mattress
did Hemingway say math isn't fun if you employ Haitian dinner etiquette?
without a coke pastie on his neck, he was just a meathead misreading smoke signals, a sneezing coughing hawking
kudos to fucktard citizen Freeze Pops!
me, I can sit for 8 hours straight in futile argument with my environment;
I see everything boredly, because my irises are unmanned;
my soul wants to audition for a part as fractal in the time-lapse pirouette;
it is so sluggish because I am the co-founder of mud
designer of the 8-bit Wellington Gumboot battlegame