IN HELL

Are you glad there is a thing like strawberry chemistry?
Then it would be polite to share your ulcers.
They are strawberries in end-state chemistry.
Hell-development is going down – 
a portion of the air guitar is still slightly grainy, however.

As the eBay description says: ‘Doesn’t grate
knuckles all the way.’ The less Hell, the more
gap mouth the guitar.
If you weren’t so into water aerobics,
it would have been the magnified cloud – floating
around in it and with an inexplicably lazy tongue
saying ‘Soup.’ All the time. For no reason.

‘“Soup,” I say this a lot,’ you would’ve said a lot.
‘“Soup,” “Cloud,” “Float,” “Fart,”’ I say all
the time,’ you would’ve said all the time.
In the left hemisphere of my brain, the
maid had left the pop-up timer, and so

I’m going to have to kill her – or phone iMaid
and demand they stop processing
the 3LG 90000 model, because this (I will explain)
‘[feels] like a deer root canal;
extending to the horn, where a soda can
explodes, and despair’s foam is curbed 

by an ineffectual busted sneaker, placed
before a storm drain.’ Mona Lisa
home-made in Hell, fallen into despair,
with tusks (rapidly expanding soda pressure – see
what I did there?), trying out, very tentatively, her
own personal failings; on a Kawasaki 50cc; watching them go.

But in Hell personal failings are everywhere. And so
are Kawasakis.

As are Mona Lisas.