“I think I broke my thumb from hitting you.”
“You can’t say sorry to that.”
This that before us, fulsome, splintered, wandered into,
wanted, O, away a dalliance
’tween resuscitive tut & brow-down kolony trothing,
gas-splet brung out the beaut’s gore, two-toned, I wiled,
ungarroted. A sandy therefore-defile.
A never-been Tucson, the warrant’s fulgent aerosol
while, finicky, acres burn sorrow whose lake presents the knoll smoke-endured.
Why wouldst one unmurder,
what is done is fun, the past is a jibber that numbs!
Meanwhile, at the dog café,
the phosphorus sausage is sentient: and it wishes
fortune’s disease partake of you. That you who sups
could call slimy history none argue.
THE WURST INTERROGATION nones you.