Monday, July 25, 2011


without the electron of hygiene.

Forklift mayonnaise. Payphone as Skittle bait.
Snail jaw.

Both legs amputated,
the maid's temporary affectation
and my bathtub's beard.
And my bed.
The knitted junkyard. 
Hello, drunken guard dog.
My what romantic chain rust.
Your owner's trepan –
how long now has it been a portal for cat food?

'Sorry to hear that,' the cadaver told itself,
after getting a stroke.
After dithering for a spell – Sputnik rammed on the go-kart track 
by a supermarket.

By that wearer of ballet slippers.

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