Around tombstones and their slight light, a carnivore hauls the vegetable
shunting invasive, weaponized as muscleman bird mole, from the rear of a mummy;
with its fancy gusting techno, Beetlejuice poetry has absorbed
as much damage as angry boulevard nudity can.
Smell of DIY leather rim preferably circular in cross section,
ad hoc sexual satisfaction not deep enough to be useful,
the mind scratched holy by Babel burial puddle.
The valley of death is something appallingly bad:
is not self-locating you actually have to locate it yourself...
with faux robot's post-modern pivot, like Vikings jostling
the British Empire from underneath her pyramidal bush,
theoretic Mountain Dew embodied ambient chains
of masculinity inflated round the RPG pornography
waitress new-risen, phlegm-darkened.