BO BICE OF THE AVANT-GARDE
When my waist-high boots sway like they're gunmen
It's time we have a threesome
With the riddle of planet Nibiru.
A talking toilet commends me on my TV body.
E. coli is seriously jacking a
Raspberry driver's seat shaved during some guerrilla war.
Nothing inside the toilet cares
That I've come to talk bone loss.
It's great weather for a wet t-shirt contest.
Jugulars rumble back to condominiums and crossbreed
Recessions are cute.
UDON NOODLES, SMOKE, UM
Hairy pies are so stressful.
I want to ravage them but always after one slurp I realize again
I'm only alive to ponder
Crayfish, talking crayfish,
Clawing at a moonwalking fart.
No balls is my cock.
Walls grow seasons and rabbits.
A refrigerator full of bones.
Bile alone clouds for cures.
Gravestones, hairdryer buyers
Styes on a lawnmower shower
Chips and salsa come ashore.
A skyline of stomach-lining cells. Never washed rapist clothes desire sun and I seduce statues concealing their genital piercings. Nice tanks never wash a decomposed body. So useless to them is how used to the smell of fruit I am. My woman says this means I'm ready for a banana up my ass. Perhaps a skyline of bananas. Like a dirty omen direct from the Iliad.
DAD'S OLD LIGHT
Edible fields toot out of a cow's udder. I wake up sealed in honey and remember fries and steaks blown up in some plane with people inside. How God tears condoms and loves the crocodile.
My prick shoots off the pink part of this poem. Debit card receipts going to get milky underneath. This is the part of the poem where my prick's been shot off. God bleeds semen through teal crocodiles.