PLUMBER

Cadaver. Out of places to put tissues.

Escape pod: one out of nine fence-humping canaries.

The mine of jazz dwarf purity

had belched velvet; the monster truck's dong had

tasted like chicken. The eater notchy from bulimia.

Hum garage abstract, hum. Colors of the map:

perhaps corduroy?

Wife:

“I'll capsule you without being overly heavy...

“I do not think about these things

“I think of urinal cakes in your palm.

“Taco Bell pterodactyl: priapism to hold like a kite

“on a hill at the loneliest point in the October 2004 wind.

“Church turd pet fish bastard plastered – the plumber's.

“Gone to sleep with a funnel in their mouth.”

Plumber:

“Callus, just take care. Callus, just take care. Just

“waiting for the diagnostics to complete.”