throwaway poems:
World of jars
A glass vivisectory portabella matrix dry cottonseed
Blood mixed in catalina human DNA recovering from
Ice cube dinner template, Aztec Lego-land azurian audit
Megaphone templar’s extreme low frequency mannerisms
For staircase ascensions, reflect hickory-gold, silver threads
fibonacci in flax wind like reeds at the end of a sky dock’s bangs
Refrigerator generator venerating provided by the all preserving
Eye, try the Heimlich on a pregnant incubation bloke, might
Feel better, without titanium tonsils, atom bomb forever grid
Debunked lung sponge left private equity army collagen
Collectors without hives to piss a pot in, curmudgeon so lofty
in thanking you for lacing the mind’s Easter basket
With the essentials: hem locked water hovel, slack jawed tunnel
To the terminal of no rebuke, government body wearing
Peanut butter tunic and selling “What If?” Free Mars party favors
And matching towels, only in burgundy - true element bondsmen
Congregate, they hold pomegranates inside out so seedy
Ventricles may be seen syringed, as prime minister of megalithic
smithed carrion turbine called civilization gathers enough
Points to make the next gut-fletching epoch, all with the same
Compassion of a dead poet’s resume being orated by Norman Clature
classified as scathing commentary program
“This is my man time.”
Entering the manhood matrix
Where relationship diaphragms can’t gain access
And friend zones are off limits
(exhibit A… disregard for the opposite rolodex)
Supreme immersion in a sensation vs. personal space
Long awaited match up, seen under a feng shui gyroscope
Such is the way g-spots communicate
their inner-most desires, and desalination processes
I start my sentences with “so” so the active disinterest
In polygon relationship motion physics won’t create the image
Of a desperate denizen - and she gave opinions on the denim
Who’s taking advantage of who and who’s partaking in frantics
You see, this wad of spinach suggests a strong girth
Your stubborn armor suggests father problems
But time is our common sibling, Sibyl… and I’m just waiting
For your clock’s hand to strike at the moment of attraction
So I can ease into your vulva database
Respectfully leave my log-in info there stored
(Trojans will rush in through an available wormhole,
Whether it’s me or not)
This is Sparta. This is pleasure’s motif on an inverted timescale.
|