TRACES OF MODERN ART

Go shopping. Go for a walk.

Go swimming at the pool.

Stick to upbeat topics.

In fiscal dices, abuzz.

Mourners pay respect to star-free audits.

Wasp stings accuse them of molesting solar panels.

The most rarely petitioned hairstyle is a douching.

I get out of this routine funk because Michael loved castles.

Deep down, a picture corrupts briefly.

Another girl on her stream, I've got the spirit

Monitoring my partner's pages.

Couple-y hydrangeas, no room for the weak.

Credit cards old enough to tote think twice about fried chicken.

What can you do about it?

Swine flu, SARS, and the like.

With all of us ends everyone that touches.

CROSSROADS LOW

Where ate you.

I reckon it was pieces of the sightseers

Exploding out of my imagination.

Six senses envision their lonely immortality.

Fingers and foes rigidly defeated, soon

Disposed of as hollow shells.

The negative spaces resulting

Are filled by sharp metal queefs.

Authorized pastries on the podium.

Just added sympathy unfolding wits and wizardry.

A splash of guilt, explaining things is gizzardly.

Through combinations of maternal blood

And paternal sperm, an enormous navel

Bleached of any intelligence

Patterns itself with allusions

To a rainbow.

Extradited leopards sleep in conclusion.

Penis, headless ham.

UNFINISHED MASK

Free pregnancies retreat from reason.

A soup of smoke, winds regenerated to threaten.

Intimate umbilical, intuition severed.

Bloody wetland primeval.

Duly abandoned by the flock, king-sized

Ripples host holes right through dips.

The mystical closeness of the vile.

Come death, a countdown so complacent.

And lips do their best to copy nature.

All this lack is potential use.

HERMAPHRODITE RIDER

Bliss for your strangled cry.

Cheese-wedge amazement, almost to the extreme

Of real faces.

A mask of me swells on women who see it, and

They're rendered sterile;

Forced to persist in overlapping parts.

What shoots up straight restores balance

To the pearl.

A divination that escapes the untrained.

WESTERNER

How to tell a mall it's dying.

Fuck your kitten like a hood.

Circles are stars and insects.