A cum-eyed cryptic's been milking my guts.
He keeps me uptucked in a cramped and cold white gash
in his brain. He's sucky. He won't grow buds of us,
or belong faces to the skins of us. Nah.
For him, the truth is useless (lessons tension, thus
undoes us. We loosen and go limp as floss, post tooth.)
He likes to double up for nothing,
tickle my sores out of boredom. That maggot
drains my stillness regularly, in shifts.
I'll have my day. I'll fuck in layers, buy buttered fish whole,
acquire a mean slap and meander through the rest of the dead,
picking off their wise birds with a long gun.
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