la pared tiene una ranura
para la ficha que tienes en la mano.
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you have no charm.
you simply usher in toxin
that hover around you perpetually.
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i would’ve called him a flake
if they weren’t fused together.
i guess it’s kind of funny
that his furry friend,
gave him that fuzzy top.
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he honed his craft
until it had risen.
recut, uncut,
great and lame.
it grew a polyp and then grew tired.
laid down on a rayon blanket
whilst a vapor formed around him
and turned him into ivory
before he got burnt to an ashen crisp
and voila,
my pooch was born.
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i stare at the floor.
what did i drop? a clove?
this whole place
is like a dirty lodge.
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a house would be nice.
with a friendly mouse,
from which to make some mince pie.
to send the message of SCRAM!
and round and round we’d go
throughout the weedy yard
until we’d get strep throat
in the midst of the chase.
i’d write his obituary in serif
and send it off to his fleet.
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