the rhythm is a xylophone ribcage
bones scat like song

folio unfolding unto itself
at the cleft of such lavish chin

just flame ducks
lapping in this oily lotus frond

lepers among the usual
unwashed dishes before stage

left scuttle a string of dipthongs
point to a shin awash in a pelagic wave a wave

each line unwound over destiny
dastards and the government of uncommon

sense into slugs and dunces
that blow and blow

a fat lady pawning a double switcheroo
a crab for emotional vanderloo

such brand new slags and dishwaters
sings the chef who skins the radish

soon comes a pesky flugelhorn
skulking for a money shot

such hot seminal flashes a little
white bird chirps as our eyes sand

from all the tears
like double-entendres drying up

a projectile recounting a tail of geometry
from parallel lines to hyperspace

whereupon the gamer can force
quit or hang o fuck

as much as the candelabra
and crystal chandelier

and the menagerie of exquisite desirables
suffice for now

malodorous rodents wouldn't go away
in a turpentine yet foresold

lashes churn and hurl
what prelapsarian condiments

before boxing tides reclaim what's theirs
either this is a click of a lid

or a slide into another fecund funnel
but who are we to say anyway

all silly cows bowels and 270-degree owls
none the wiser all the same