The nefariously protesting mutter of my long-gone mama
as I make a Mother’s Milk,
cold cheap gin, warm whole milk; pause,
dig out the maple syrup and make it a Sweet Mama’s Milk,
a taste appropriate to the thistly breakfast I’ve got on for this bustly bumpkin of a morn.
Jangled by derailleur thoughts,
of witless heroism,
unwitnessed Impressionismism,
leafless weaseling; refutations of reputations surreal with their jaundiced hostility to hospitability.
Merely technically dark, I see,
of a magnitude only barely dissonant,
I step forward toward the artichokey assonance of one of inauthentically measured manhood.
Want to say “boy” to a cat,
want to give a stern look to a bat,
proffer twee wishes to the next pink impulse that frolics along?
Yeah, whatever; an absentminded admission of volcanism is worth what? an intimation of a sheepish coyote’s electrolytic breakfast?
Not more.
Though one could easily argue the converse, if inclined to the pose of the prissy heathen; it’s dragon-fodder to the ruthless cosmopolitans of these confessional lucubrations…
More unromantic arcana; give me a kilo of sweet peace, a mindful guinea prig, lithium imprecations swaddled in a Scottish séance; ordure in the court!
Moth-eaten Wheaties with a porn star on the box suggest some boutique idiosyncrasy bulimic with hypocrisy,
a deplorable fidelity to encrusted salvation. “…death is the world’s landlord…” sayeth Chris Fuhrman, not so mysterioso, not meaning to purport more than can be aspirated at a swell foop, I tink.
I am an otter, and am off to Addis Ababa to sell someone gums for a short-legged helping of tea and weary jam, toasted by a sun bigger than the biggest spider ever; see you THEN!

Writhing....