I'm inside a homeless man, making the honey hollow.
I haven't seen any bees here, but that doesn't mean I won't
wake up tomorrow holding ketchup like a hand-grenade.
The honey is now empty as a full-time job,
except I've forgotten all my duties & grown titties
as big as engorged stormdrains furiously atwitter.
At a certain point I can only listen to saxophone
without vomiting up a sabbath of ink inside the homeless man.
Suddenly I remember my long lost mother sent me a gift
card that takes care of that sorta thing.
Before the law got so bad it grew wind out of its own parties,
she had been a nice woman, and I and her
had gone to a crazy movie where the land was covered
in wrathful dust and the poor had migrated
through the Western states looking for jobs
and somehow they all survived in the end and still had
time to tickle their children and sit under sinister trees.