Tuesday, March 25, 2014

RIP Van Loinleather

In a haunted painting on the side of a bus, Jaws III smirks
big Coca-Cola letters that follow you. As if to uproot weeds
from a treasure map, a postprandial tongue elbows shark molars.
Shark eyes follow, too, watery  i.e. subterranean windshield shavings
spill from twirling optic parasols onto the dashboard's rape van
loinleather. Eyes fed and still connected by hunger-tubes to Santa's brain
(a machine which nuzzles what it thinks about). Serial killer physics
dribble from a boiling clock onto the titular shark's antlers,
like Satan's tweets disappearing in pizza, mimicking subconscious
slowburn. 

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