ARTHROPODS

When you touch the Cookie Monster,

it feels like touching a horse.

It's hard to keep a deathbed's resin

off any such lush blue surface.

One could've sworn the final husk was

a lab-grown basket, death dragging it

straight faced. His poop-trails of comet rust.

The rot swinging through a mesh and making

his mourners spotty. Defacing the walls

psychedelically. A gallstone on a tether

keeps misaligning with its profane inner

grime. Forever seeking what constitutes a

Tic Tac. You have lost your badass filaments.

One tonsil is arrested electronically; the

other is a pop-up smiley attached to

a pedal, pops up, shadow boxes its hazards.

In life, one is not as pleasant as two.

In an alternate dimension, the mite merely

sits there, exhausted. It is a celebrity, therefore jaded.

Star of a medical blooper reel in which the arthropod is

circumcised with a fork. There's a din in the

background, not laughter, but similar.

There was only one fire extinguisher that

Freud ever found cute, for the same

reason Professor Xavier, his head baldly displaced

in headphones, only psyches out black trannies.

A straight jacket's auto-feeding habits

spindling truth in leather. A square diaper.

Long-legged, suffering from the glare.