I’m sober as Walter Brennan,                      

It’s a right sea-level sea,

And it’s filled up with pieces of North Americans.

The absolute food of the day is whale bone,

Structures are serious status symbols,

Driftwood in the jet stream smashing the air planes,

Gaping norms.

Steeper plausible ticket sales to Baltic types,

With their fucking indifferent fawning,

The girls they get for the little alcoves,

Drifting off on the dang thing.

Over time, the thing is serious, Les.

The roof trusses of this vessel are made of us,

And there’s no evidence that even the shorter cloisters can float.

Now it’s a split-level sea, so please, fuck me.

Let the blessings rise on from the distaff,

And all experience away from thee be of unlit dun hillocks.

The throw up would so stream out of my younger self,

Like, I had stone fists and a butter face,

And let my landlady stuff her greased fingers in and out my ass.

The brassica rose best out of weaker light. Lamp thus

In hand I bend like a parabola through all rooms of ginormous house.

When I farm I do so like a doll. Fear

Is at work: the Meal Deal comes with a mask.

Jogging along, through the Brig.

Bright and cheery lemons!

Almost no wait and y’all were back.

I’ll get called to bore into you,

To cancer, to its unlimited express,

A furrow of drought.

I logged on without getting up,

Laying in the bottom of the can

With the sedimented spy phosphates,

The cloth of me being

Stitched into that second split,

The cries of watchfulness!

Hexameter of eggs, but

Not a word from Teach

And our garments gone to ground,

Like milk boiling out

In a big wide black pan.

Seven determined foster children, three

Thousand intimidating billionaires, gorgeous

Viands, horseshit banshee puke.

When they look back through their bent legs

They sink one by one every boat in the Sound.

She burned herself,

In the mid-air hummingbird dogfights of literature,

And by associated craft.