When you touch the Cookie Monster,
it feels like touching a horse.
It's hard to keep a deathbed's resin
off any such lush blue surface.
One could've sworn the final husk was
a lab-grown basket, death dragging it
straight faced. His poop-trails of comet rust.
The rot swinging through a mesh and making
his mourners spotty. Defacing the walls
psychedelically. A gallstone on a tether
keeps misaligning with its profane inner
grime. Forever seeking what constitutes a
Tic Tac. You have lost your badass filaments.
One tonsil is arrested electronically; the
other is a pop-up smiley attached to
a pedal, pops up, shadow boxes its hazards.
In life, one is not as pleasant as two.
In an alternate dimension, the mite merely
sits there, exhausted. It is a celebrity, therefore jaded.
Star of a medical blooper reel in which the arthropod is
circumcised with a fork. There's a din in the
background, not laughter, but similar.
There was only one fire extinguisher that
Freud ever found cute, for the same
reason Professor Xavier, his head baldly displaced
in headphones, only psyches out black trannies.
A straight jacket's auto-feeding habits
spindling truth in leather. A square diaper.
Long-legged, suffering from the glare.