tinny earwhistles march to the

tinny earwhistles march to the drum of a cantonese salesman of wallpaper.
each time the skinny blows, we leap about like frogs and walruses.
give it time, they say. we know better.
every muffin rolls about in mud and perpetuates the cycle.
green glasses on the verandah. don’t kiss her there!
can’t you see the tightening about her mouth, that scolding
backward glance. each time we cry it apes a bitter role.
when the sausages are done, there and there and there,
there will be a feast, a feast of heaven on sticks.
no lil’ smokes for you or me. if only I could fasten
a holographic smoke projector to my hand and mouth:
it would save all the coffin trouble which follows.
if you’re not careful, your lungs and eyes will fill with yellow smoke.
why does the dancing care so much?
the nails need paring, soon they scratch the flesh.
similarly, when all the hulas began to sway,
the girl in black cut our heart away. her smile the knife.
here have a piece, take it gladly. i’ve no regrets.
i’ve no regrets.
when the burlyman stands on his soapbox raging, do we listen?
do we? we don’t want to hear about regrets.
choke that yellow sauce down. make the belly lurch.
trance your state: eat the sausage now and no regret.
even though it makes the sidewalls quake, still
juggling that standard matchstick. inform the keeper.
uncles keep keeling over. smashed to bits by the all-
devouring mother. how can we save the uncles?
there’s only tiny mishmashed left… how sad.

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