This song cannot be stopped; this swimming
gets set to music, the music's fine-tuned to time which is, after all,
an illusion in which notes live their lives and go vibrating to their end
where I am on the phone, screaming because you want to give a man a blowjob.
I doth stuff limp pinto beans up my nose, my lady.
I prefer limas. I prefer Thailand, you in a wetsuit, the coral zebraing across your cheek.
I do not understand why you tell me these things.
Your motives on a frequency I'm not able to detect,
which indicate to me that I should become nervous. 40 feet long, now,
Which further indicates a lust for beef jerky roadtrips, a way to move far enough
and stealthily enough that our hides will harden.  No longer will infomercials make us cry
from now on we cry with gusto and only on our birthdays or the funerals of the heart
-like furnace. Everything is on fire.
I hope to harpoon.  Tomorrow,
For now, there's the beaching, the breaching of contracts and vows, an sea of trouble and
other stale metaphors.
Despite this, Xanex seems in order.  I think I need to see a shrink because
vague waves invade my translucent energy patches spraying hoy sparks on my cockhorse.
What tin vagaries. What starry nightshells. This electric stage, the rain at our feet.
This ocean shaking from the conversation of eels.