Oh I train- then the desperation bakes;
myself. Myself. My grave. My bread. My strait.
Making a star out of a monster man.
A pain that bites the crocodile of sleep
says it is supple enough for the length
of digabamboom strides of a leg.

Pardoning umbilical jello.
Those are melodies. Mawkish, but spotted
to be watched while you eat;
endless rascalry of the stinking bile
surging across the olive rooms of the hide.

My my. Tore up, facing the fantastic oblige,
whole tones hovering to say hello hi, bellow
the brackish toothpaste smile; repercussion
of caws, repercussion of caws.