Like little lovers of disaster dowsing for stone, the Minions'
clothes have darkness inside, their fav counterpoint of suggestion
on the periodic table of food - birdman's power-orange - squeaks in
the hand of the woman: you can forget Eve clutching at pines in the Rorschach monster truck.
Clockwise cremation cancelled taking off their clothes,
switched horse skeletons burying ever-hidden meanings in the para-sandwich of the story ....
Honey pendulum lowered, being naked in front of a CD player
twirling would help the psychological tail
find possessions not easily found in the dark
stuck peering happy through ink, the warm fever
of the psychic terror of the Victorian inanimate
of the phone's heart-center sacrificed in a compassionate smudge
of wisdom: "We're here baby"