TUNING FORK

down some lizard-way for adding wattage to the tableware, boosting time
in the broom closet a few surfacings north of some really, really rough dry cleaning, so I can show you my belly's equatorial vents to show you how it does its mumblings, with a tincture to stop wormsong clotting, umbilical hydraulics recommended to keep its snorts cosmetically stuck, for more bass, thenceforth tactfully putting off the trajectory of its abortion

meanwhile the slouching figure of your uncle interrupts the radio's evomition with onset scarecrow, which interruption's death/bird-underarm odor relates custom-made to every angle of the radio's respirator, a circus syndromatic imp caught in a fish net, your uncle's head burns, trying to move towards the radio's grille and crawl in to use the earth as ersatz bubble wrap, planet-induced lesions, the pauper's classic outer layer...

“no long wave - can't listen to me cricket!”

meanwhile in the broom closet gears grow square in sturgeon fat chain-smoked

into just another familiar cycle of organs quaking in arousal's prolapsed bean, acting like the nurse would amputate its prehensile Martian sauce, the one so clearly built by its own aesthetics, unknown parts' curvature revisited, apart from the one I listen to most frequently with the fork of suspended animation