They sell all kinds of spices where
she's from.
Humiliated.
Embarrassment
polymerizes
a sludgy squid
body of mine,
thrashing in a salt water soaked,
choked,
electric chair.
I haven't ever resorted
to paving a silk idea
with shark printed
carpet since the ancients.
A tombstone fridge.
I knew it was that gypsy
on your shoulder
talking on the telephone.
Gun street girl,
riding rusty
in a cyclone.
Cologne
scented gherkins,
flirting,
while her man is slurping jerky.
I'm a turtle who lives in the desert
because he hates the English language.
No lies, we need no more