Personification walks in and says she’s never felt quite real.
She can tell the future, but she can’t tell it much. Time won’t listen. Throw grenades at the clowns who chug tequila. Put your mug into his hand so he can really feel you.
Watermelon fruit nuts, I still don’t have to peel you. Comb your spigot and spit it at the ant can’t shine.
Absolution in tin cans, free boarding toxic constants, consultants to your kidneys, living in somebody else now.
Crab fray, a shellfish knockdown at absolutely no cost to you and for no reason whatsoever.
Puzzled, they mixed up your face. Your eyes point out from different angles in your head, making it impossible to discern anything. Bad split screen out of focus 3-D, and you forgot the glasses.
Chinese washtub soundtrack, a fuzzy theater transforms your lungs into someone else’s point of view. Strangulation in the ribcage on the screen. All they could do is watch.
© Robert Emmett McWhorter