I have to shake these hatch backed hallucinations.

I have to misplace
these Indiana blues & jig saw walks.
Twisted teeth and sun flower seeds
yield
a paradox with dryer socks.
The girl has Jones pop spilling through her viens
that pumps that heart shaped mass of
gristly whistles and red bean paste.
Liquid fingers frolic with follicles
in the broccoli brothel, brother.
Tongue twisters with the mistress' mattress
cause' I spilt my anchovies salts.

Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.

Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep  
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.

I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches  drenched
in honey brown ale.

His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.

It sketched and slapped an ombre
of crimson reds
& tangerine oranges
until it carved a comfortable atmosphere
amongst the void blacks
and howling navy blues.

Her sun bleached hair dangled over her forehead.
They were the vines that tangled
into wispy curls of tiger's eye gold that
hung lavishly in front of the youngest
temple.
Her eyes were sour,
a Blink and a whistle.
Someone coughing on the last bus outta town.
Those powerful cheek bones,
that she obtained through her
constant "according to" accordion smile,
fell off into a pair of lips
that were just pronounced enough
to make her look like she would laugh & ****,
tempt or incinerate.
Intellect winked from her every word
like a whip of cold water and eggnog.

The Campfire was an artist.
It delicately plucked a scene
ripe with confidence and relaxed alcohol.
A tone that made her amazonian scowl
seem intimate and gentle.

That lunar sphere hangs
like a sliver of silver.
It boils my thin blood & nullifies my exotic fear until
We can dance ritualistically
through cobweb covered streets towards those
Blissfully
Rejuvenating steps backwards.
This nocturnal plague intoxicates us  
into a fugue state of ruthless fever dreams
that visualize memories of our young past.
Grip me close for this ferocious leap into
the Night's chill.
Breath me like you never have.
I try to scream.
I only howl.

The scent of blisters
lingers in the milky air,
complimenting the tang
of evaporated perspiration.

Festering under my feather stuffed
comforter
I reflect heavily
and endure no more physical activity
than the sun cooked skin on hour old
gravy.
Everytime I itch my pink flesh
I end up with an oily layer under my nails
that resembles cheese.

I am a cave dweller this afternoon.