NASAL DECONGESTANT

I confuse twilight and its rolling shadows

with the meaningless, hydraulic cramping of Post-its

curling yellow from age. When all else is dark, I bake bread

in HD. Still, audible within the calipers of the bread's look

of dry lips is a very typical American hysteria.

The strips of public neurons sweaty nasal spray

wiggles its bum crystalline on. Phonetically, the

hysteria's bleeping is difficult to understand.

The clock's absence of compression marks in gum

after using the latter to stop time.

Jean Claude Van Damme has a little scar on his knee,

a small scrape or square, broken off. Axis of a

generic mosaic. My bum is balanced unassisted on his face,

the side profile of which then gives a cut-off impression.

Invisible escalator rooted in punk eczema.

Santa meeting roads without numbers to houses.

All eerily modernized, flats no longer merely waiting,

but flexing. Mini golf played thrashing like a

Swiss Army Knife's temper tantrum. Scientists know

where to look to see this: billions of years ago, two minutes

before the Big Bang's scrap metal casually pooled.

The parabola Ayn Rand's pencil, wedged in bath salts,

died at the completion of.