I'm awful sorry about the
mismatched mutant socks.
It's the dryer that
is ought to do somethin'
awful. Peaches irregardless.
Do you support the Youth in Paris?
No the indigestion
gets to be all I can
muddle. Kick goes on
it's very own trip of street cars
on bikes, friend.
My beard is cramping, only
no massage in five hours.
House boats, punch punch
houseboats. And a kind of
lost bass rumble roofing
my goddamn eyes. The
aperture closes
around the iris of a
crane.
An apple gets home and
plays the drums until everyone
in apartment is dead.
Dryer fabric as
wallpaper. She is in a race to
die, smothered in french toast
and peaches.
I bought a gun for
my baby, took her
out to a rodeo and
shined her slacks with bull's blood.
Then our father took out
salmon sticks and penicillin
and we ate for days and days
and days and
days and days
and days and days.
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