This little bug,
that seems to tug,
I'm happy to hug,
but its looking smug.

It points down to the harbor
without a look of favor,
My boat's deep sank anchor,
of an ankle that's splattered
I thought laid out to pasture,
Its giggling with treasure.

This bug is as smooth as butter,
knows of my deep sank razor
and it knows of my clear number,
of the day I declared the reaper.

I would squish it but its slippery,
and it'll splash down so deeper,
I can tell by its sparkling eyes,
so I feed it coins and treasures.

This little rascal, better be hustled,
all it will end so dependently
Its hard to squirm a worm,
but I'll find a way to conform.

There's a tide
that's red of
voices heard.

A gathering of
sheep from a
dog that herds.

Banging of metal
from vocals
from cry-out words.

Screaming loud
risking all as
they take the nerves.

Lungs do scream
of how they do hurt.
Banging as they suffocate,

in the back of this beat ol' van,
until the time of last breath,
And the last is of their death.

I remember the two dollar coins
I found behind my ears,
like a magician so foreign
ignited my gears,
lit up these eyes,
like colorful balloons,
not only tooth-fairies as I lay
but sometimes genies in the sky....
You were the rough but kind man,
I knew awaited from every saloon.

The web tangled a fly in the predator's grips,
An abomination coming with spinning legs,
Jaws full of venomous poison, " thy will be done"
A creature monstrous born of " him and the son"

I need a million attractions from her thighs
and the rest of her delivers a silent sigh
She leaves this beating a void of absence
And she doesn't even see me to tease....

I see the mouths of lovers dripping salvia,
like the sharing of hits of Russian *****
And the belittling of nerves awash,
trying to hide in Camouflage......

If I washed up on your sleeping shores,
will you tend to me or leave me a corpse,
or leave me a broken heart which adores
until the pupils in my eyes withdraw.

Thousands of years already lit
by blue flames  and the red slits,
murders and the  suicides,
Victor gets to wave his flag.

Hands get scorn without oven mitts
A machine newly born feels much less,
and needs no emotions like a kiss,
It gets by with oil and batteries.

A little black bird,
with white underbelly,
wags its little sweet tail,
before the storm and its hail,

A car on the freeway,
caught in the down-pour,
wipers are on full-max,
and in front's just a fog.

And the little bird gets hit,
as the car's front gets smashed
little wings get torn to bits
as a neck snaps from the crash.

Black as night's tide,
comes the flooding rain,
Lightning strikes an old tree,
burning it down to a crisp

Insects running to little hives,
can't escape with their lives.
Mother nature can be beautiful,
and at a change can be deadly.