Crazy people talk to themselves. But so do intestinal
parasites: “Oh my. Oh my.
What a sexy delivery truck. How it comes roaring
round the corner. It really catches
the eye! Oh my...”
The pinworm's throat wrinkling from too many kilograms of suck,
too many kilograms collapsing. Such weight
marinates the Skittles passing under cold, reused condom skin.
Like tumbling into frigid laundry.
Actually, with their astonishing wings and twirling tails, dragons
in outrageous fantasy worlds are the allegory of choice for urban
clotheslines now fitfully, now metronomically suspending frozen clothes.
Apathy after kilograms. After kilograms.
Your special mermaid 'foot' just feels like it's standing in mist;
too many kilograms of mist and also,
there's plankton's misspent youth in your special mermaid shoe,
auto-asphyxiating in the rain trapped by your
special mermaid shoe. You're a black mermaid living
in a township, and your name is 'Precious.' But it means something
Meanwhile, in a lush, swampily appointed penthouse, the Swamp Thing
discovers euphoria in what appears to be
a shiny knoll. Why does the knoll appear so happy?
It has squelched all the way from the bathroom to the living room.
Will it eventually drift away on a flotilla of skin off my own latrine?
The damp-looking knoll evaporates, faintly rattling. Was I looking at it in an
intimidating fashion? Was it my demeanor? My blazing eyes?
My microwave face, atop a T-shirt which depicts what turns into a
Mongolian contortionist when I bend weirdly –
as if bitten by the same mosquito out of whose ribcage
my mother and father, that time it was in my room and
stole stuff with its proboscis, had savagely ripped the baby monitor,
“Why don't you answer us? Why are you so quiet?”
my whole brain, in shared hunger with the mosquito,
feeling like a hot, light bulb-trapped “inner voice,” “inner weight”.