The hand grenade didn't go off. It didn't give a shit.
Its fatty mental mechanism, when it sat there thinking
about STUFF, in the sewer I'd tossed it into,
turned hard and chocolate-flavored - shockwaves
of smooth shiny acrylic, doodles in drag:
the new messiah prancing through Jerusalem.
Restructuring vignettes of dark twisted
cerebral palsy – the flaccid python it
pumps full of electrolytes – the ambulance
takes breaks by screaming silently into a tub
of hand lotion. The ambulance stands barefoot
on the spongiform anatomy of the supernatural.
Dear hooker – act appropriately. Practice by stacking the
layers flaking and plunging from an ice cream's back-alley autopsy;
with time you'll be able to filter those hideous repercussions
of the evil mad scientist's mole anthropomorphized as a
bouncer's scalp – plus his idle thoughts about STUFF – dry erased
by the hat wrought in a complex gang fuck. Excreted by
his mental disorder's foray into a napkin.
An urban youth's doll arms toying with a biro gives the
creepy impression of a dragon slayer holding a hot
stainless steel tea kettle with house slippers.
Sketching the process and mistaking the result
for the pruny, deflated heart of the neighborhood raptor.
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