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Burnt nose stinky bucket of fish on the end of a slung over the
back telephone pole with a grandmaw at home cooking up a pot of sewage.
Wish I could forget my way home itchy butt, wired to a heart longing to be sky-dropped in an unknown archipelago with a cheese sandwich in the snow.
Duplicated tv-face stick creatures connected by mucus-threads projecting
out of the ears, vibrating line, Fish eyes peering out of the bucket saying
you stink worse than we do.
Dracula get your fanged-bone skeleton home before sunrise to whatever
it is that keeps you alive called love and feed it whatever's in the cupboard,
because to ignore it would be saying no thanks to the child who molded
us out of play-dough.
