Breakfast time, if you can believe it,
caustic lye, bulimic.
Bloated trapeze trick,
the lilacs are free in the vale,
and I am eating sumptuous
hazelnut spread on Sunday morning stale.

Hypochondriac, make it fit:
the violent sable; the gothic fly mis-fit
Now that fly, how that fucker refuses to die,
multiple resurrections on this day.

Sunday school harlequins
in the Avon-lady quagmire,
bearded lady, I aspire
to weirdness and burgundy wine.
Botox, buttocks,
forehead of fluid sheets,
all the emoticons are dead.

The Sunday Morning Mafia begins
with rumor, a dozen of reaching-in sins.
Three types: sad dresses addressing the fail,
Malachite in coriander, Paisley in chili, Tartan and ginger.

The mind perversely and mercifully wanders:
a call to all firefighters and construction workers,
please be my suspenders
on day too accessorized by Sunday.
Fire hydrant and salamander,
power drill and blueprint factor
be my suspense, be my tear in the girdle,
my mind-hurdle.

Glug, glug, glug: the public restroom
has drain disorder,
between that and the MC,
I hear no difference, whatsoever.


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