The
hyena's eyes' glare
composting
in their bottle caps.
Hyena
waffles.
The
chain in its hair appears diffuse.
The
animal is a soft, domesticated animal.
It has
a waterbed's soul's million
honeycomb
puddles dog collared.
It's
possible to drain the waterbed
by
combing it with a comb. Such that
its
schematics begin to
slowly
dangle.
The
hyena towed away
by
this transfiguration.
Spilled
out of the house
when
the waterbed pops...
In a
context preceded
by a
context in which an arm
lay on
the floor. The lady, who had
squeezed
her unconscious
information's
supports, its mundane
props.
A staple of therapy
hardware.
Xanax-perforated
or on
the
new version of
domestic
surge: e.g. lasers?
The
stairwell had collapsed.
Other
things also need
to be
pumped up again.
Made
pretty.
If
you're doing sorcery
with a
box cutter,
give
yourself more
photogenic
gills.
Unlimited
R.I.P. to those
dead
around you. Unlimited
air,
replicating death's lungs'
lips.
Breathing
not like
spooning
each
breath
with
splinters.
With
cramps
lending
traction
to our
prehensile ghetto-parts.
The
butcher's torso
hinging
on his dirty apron.
One
rarely uses
the
internal intergalactic
unconscious,
other than by
circumventing
it for fun –
magnets
dropped into
tiny
imperfections.
Cobbled
together
from
clockwork. The
sofa
blossoming again.
Like salad transmitted into
sweatpants.
The
gutters fixed.
The
animal impounded.
The
paradox of organs –
the
rules of their union
hold
up under the fiercest
scrutiny.
Your, my, everyone's
tonsils
and shit, bound by rules.
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