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.