The Man in Your Life Will Exercise His Fink ‘til it Wail

In this sticky ultra pocket, the fuckwad waxes
sentimental his narcosis, grandiose his flag
hag. Feather duster his collection, clam fisted
breakfront lit with a ureic pall: caved in bluegrass,
toe-tapping pappy spasm, rim pinking jazzercise.

In this punky loam vista, count the gone wrong
preservations. Tiki torching, bikini killing. Pop
the glass eye from his mildewed outlet. Pinned to
his gagsuit lapel, a list of sure fire. Sunshine,
mollycoddle, sweetheart, princess, supine, peep
cheater, gosh all git up.

Now you think it's precious tempo? That's
his pencil fugging your plasma right back to basic.

Punishment

The punishment came in the form of a femur. A shrill
cat scratch flag of bone. The punishment came
in the form of a swell-gutted viewfinder, slick cards
spinning, spoke spooking, vulgar nostalgic. Soap
sock spastic nail gun frantic tag fist and plaguing
the socket. Swish of the tongue tooth call, swish fake,
but failsafe. Hissy fitted. Studded PVC wishbone.

The darling punishment. A graph grown boot knife
in the back of the neck. In the sorry cleft. A boot
in the neck, a blue fisted kisser. A weft slug, a slit
knit kill prone. The punishment was well deserved.

The punishment came in the form of a femur
from one's own body. Hefted, weighted, hulked back.
Came link-fisted, augmented, tampered to perfection. With
an aerosol can. A sting fix, a shrewd eye. Cuffs, cables.
Torch, panic button. Practice, fuckwad, nothing personal.