The Shudderesses

may be beings in their own eternal light and damnation.
Collated by massive super novelty innerventors,
suspect of inane religions, grabbed by nacho infused
bully guarded facially braided unpopulars.
Crying like night found pigeons swelled up on sills
of darker whites than previously imaginable.
Little girls, proper girls. Soul-boned, drench-wiped
aftershocks of two five-high towers of wires
for telephonic calls to her, dice, and jumps just.
Noxious and not just for folding her brain,
but light spewing from her nimbly intimate incisors.
Backwards sheepishly fidgeting, Blake Lively,
an outer call girl with fake plastic Rhombus
Factoids skips living and fakes laughing
to surmise sunrise particle beams
at last, while silhouetting her own reflection
on sidewalks near her lullaby's grown satisfaction.
Crumpled skin sacks, au pair on sedate schedule
of Reader's Digest, noggin legumes, pasta regiment
not outlasting, none outstanding, a time for ages
to be pressed again, foreign dialogue tongueless
top beating mouth senses, overarching web patterns
of mistaking no sense less. Tomboys, tomcats,
Razor race whores scooter, scooting cooch,
Waver never being blind, bloody bling,
a rubbing of her.
Nosferatu sucks. Nerf in tune, whistling football.
The burial of the light switch joke.
Forward acrophile safer journey
a lawful contribution.



( dedicated to May Swenson and all who feel or shudder