Grandpa used to have a collection of raccoon roadkillsHe’d adorn the fireplace with flattened critter carcassesOn special occasions and stash the rest in his secret lair3-level Victorian houses sweat from the architect’s waterbreakBuilders of our age soaking in the unexposed light of the denMasticate the lacerated tangerine and sink below the refineries of the cellarLift door, and enter dust particle haven.
The sounds of deep breathing gorge the dank room“Where am I?” said the woman, just regaining consciousnessStruggle to break free, reach the asscrack of lightAnd breathe in the sweet smell of freedomThe Arabian goggle robe ropes that bound her prevent any escape“Somebody help me!” she yelled in vain.Sitting there sobbing until the sound of footsteps came.Ah, salvation at last!Or is it?
I’m beginning to see things in a new lightMeaningless words and things all around us taking on a new hue,Camoflouging leaflet bugs trapped within the confinements of my cellular phoneThe pit of radiation bows before the hairdress entreprenuer of King Jung’s spike and Donald Trump’s toupe.These ideas illuminated by impending danger of the hurricane shaking the door.Who will work up the family man courage to twist the twisterDig up the Egyptian tomb skeletons and SCREAM FOR PYRAMID.
He’s still there.
In : Poetry