Boo Fun

I'm certain you'll create what is an increadibly profound experience.

And the dead will rise from the living,
Shit in their rice bowls and throw it

To the chanting germs and ceiling bats
Repeating a growl kneeling depth

Of gropes not relevant but exhausting smog
Plaid and panting legislators flailing,

Spinning on the scruffiness of an incensed wad
Forgiving the fuckslap where time lapsed
Between slops of schedules and festive curds

Scattering in pillows stuffed with cacophonous leeches
Slender like an ankle and flexible like the thongs
Monks wear when they cream my kabob slanted,

And the damage displayed is a trickling simulcast,
Collectively folded inside iridescent colons

Burping up a dismal afterglow pungency
Breeching the boo fun

Of living as the risen dead shitting in their rice bowls.

I'm sure you know why I'm writing.

Adios for a spell, lovers and blubber.