I got high on eating pets to

an unhinged evacuation of a

mouth-long rape fantasy, the

detailed tackling of healthiness

through a crime-carrot while

in a relationship with a bird –

you too would feel it coming

in the room trying to oppose

a hooded Bruce Springsteen

when he hugs you, no?

Cleansed of this negro Candyman,

before his death, I fled an obsessive

tightness, spat three times

in the middle of the laundry ...

yet no prophecy lingering, drawn from

expectation of thief in the

night, departed sitting down

to Uranus jarring into hallucination...

Why do aliens queef secrets on the

branch of a solar eclipse, perish on

the beach and pass looks of sensational

peacocks starving to death?