Even eagles cry, and nary a shrew could spill his guts over the boiling Texas blacktop stretcht out like a snake skin over radiator bowels. Nocturnal emissions for you my sweet love, for this Saturday is too jumbled up in my prophetic memory glands, sorting out the hormone files for the kiddys who learn on the other side of the stockyard. The hay’s piled up like a fort for the testimony repeaters, wind in the rifle, after shock of public indecency. Playing the flute in the treetops, Mama shun sine coasts through the demon ages picking up loose static and prickly pear petals building an earth far more mundane and integral to the side of the residential complex where tiny glowing eyes peep out of insex and starving social bugs, named Austin, Winni, Peg, Suiza, Nacho, y Pueblo.
Kill the sox, Montenegro, We loons need utter peace, sawed-off eyeballs, quenching fluttery murals of paint streaked as if life itself slapped the face of Mary’s daughter with a hand made out of corroded white cheese, in the early darkness of the village serial rapists of the lands, hot springs kiss the dirt of the placid star-spangled eerily eternal fabric of a cloak that wraps us all in intangibility and Crisco bloody dough moods falter and I kick the business with a toasted frankfurter
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