Are these tomatoes holocaust werewolf towns?
Look at the tomato. Maximum Respecky.
A carfool o’ poop.
Geometrically, on the consistent-yogurt, it proceeds something like this:
1. A scorpion is its own birthday. Red or not.
2. Two birthdays ago, DNA was photographed, but never dugout.
3. I feel artificially better, but my back is maybe too warm, which I can change by moving. I just did, by hook & by crook—limbered.
4. This is it then, isn’t it, a suck-ass lobster, slawclawed through theatrical red sex.
Scrub-tumbling, a klaxon spasming fleapowder,
I shower a frayed thing antiquely textbook &
Argued over the particle-flat bowels of deserted Bazaars.
6.Below unsafe towers crude as a ram’s
Shackling of gears, broken crockery,
Desultory as pluckslick dungwire engines
Pulls the wingbone titdug off the back-
Ward oblivious reekbarrowed crowd—
Flagged flaghill like scree!
Jutblack, in a city unconvinced by gravity
Twanging like guitar strings leaving trails of defecation
Jackdaws & icecube-predators commodified undulant
Above the braked-tar of the rooftops, verging.
Profanity bursts into the air like fat fingers
Blistered on square slabs of city-planned debate-habitations.
Near the beginning, undulated like a walrus riverpigged as near as damnit, Foucault, decrying pointless sentientomorphism, declares: “I don’t feel it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in like and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning.” Chickensumo and Doomsparrow, Knucklesauce Beaujanglesz, and don’t forget Crispin Harborheart Tickwilly, who’s been trying, and they all, so many heads it’s headless.