Using the creamy artifice of gravity,
Gollum sits on the couch.
Which, through the same artifice, he has
puked on.
Deep-throat pastures recover the yeti's
aura in forgotten old lung.
The pool attendant's tongue finds the
same harmony in the farty skidmarks of CPR – flexible toast in the
ensuing blotch-pattern; corpse-indentation loving it some
hydrotherapy from the last magical driveby primate. A crunchy
embolism soul-cleanses on the laser's crank.
The pool absorbs a dull clunking. A comet
is steered by its own septum. Energizer bunny goo becomes airborne by
its own useless weight.
How many levels of chlorine are we
talking, grandmother-soaked?
My brow is dry and old. My brow's aura is
keeping its goose feathers young.
Fat, open-hearted sinuses: lurking with
how many levels of pool attendant?
Shouldn't the mouth I'd made space for in
my brain – the only brain in my cluster of craniums – have eaten
a wet electrode by now?
In their View Master, my tits enjoy the
comforting blur of a carwash vaudeville.
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