It was the last time they saw each other,
resting the Red Indian scalpel where the taxi's organ
trailed low, a last kiss acting like peeled cancer knob crust
in a typical movie scene.
“Under the shadow of my super-tail Uranus shrivels, Tonto.”
With shriveled anus I'm watching you
getting into the cab. Plagued is a special feeling,
and I'll be doing plenty of that soon. But for now, I
forgot to brush my teeth; last night's fried chicken
spongiforms in my beard, bugs that seem to transdimensionally
dogsick long in one simple, fellatial swallow; chaotically
withstanding the tubed symmetry of my gag reflex.
Tonto moves from the city to the countryside. There, he
expects to find windmills: their burps powering
paper planes, his Negroid nostrils reduced in skinny air
to teacups trapping rain in his sleep. Indeed, brand-new ligaments
will let him resemble himself in a vaguely tasteless,
stereotypical fashion – but at least he'll no longer be
some asshole's sidekick.
Meanwhile, the aforementioned plaguing – Lone Ranger's
aureola is still lingering in the back yard. And despite the effort
of insects to drag it away and schoolboys to fold
the carrion nipple in their pockets, the plaguing stays.