Friday, July 30, 2010

3 poems


A blue golf shirt and khaki shorts urinate into some trees. Their penis was long gone.
All male golfers pee into little boys. A cart suffers from eternal fever.

If a blue golf shirt is against the law, trees should be charged through shorter penis time.
Urine was put on a diet in the hole of an absolute angel.

A loaf on top of a tree was once a little boy. So flows the summer of khaki asparagus.


Hawks are not a photoshop messup. Like us, they wonder if they brushed their teeth today.

There is mystery when you like to order anything you like.

Semblances of us buck as roast beef suddenly appears where the hawks were photoshopped.

A real dude brushes the hairs on his back. They are in stock now, grabbing popcorn.


Stars in heat. That's my memo for a footjob. Once gravity contorts, motorboats will be hanging down to my knees. A voice in a couple of beers throws them over my shoulders, how gross.

Knees in heat. Blown up air is just a plumber. Plastic fangs on all his shoulders. Gravity is such a soiled customer.

Footjob on a motorboat. A big butt with a head vomits into my mouth a little. Poking me in the eye puts balloons in my pants.

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