This song is a jumping pizza that uses pixilating
words to put cheese in your body.
The pixilated stars flush along your axons.
In wavy chunks, a heat moves stellar fast
between the yeast and englobes a grey meal.
You astro-fill the many mouths in you.
Who is this you I keep talking to?
The dough revolving.
The keel perpendicular.
Cheese curds melt snug in whose loved brain.
Save yourselves, cry the imaginary sparrows, feed us
into the chainsaw sound, into the trees falling, over the hand
confused and fumbling, trying to keep the vulnerable birds
singing clear tones, the lumps of self congeal
in their jointed frames. All of me snug
forward, nothing lost except the mind. The asteroids
in the amber light. The blade of the can opener
is the difference between a spank and a bullet.
The leaves arrange themselves into accusatory
splashing, in the hopes that myself might
know myself. I place my hand into the past,
a whole school of fish. It's like Kenny Rogers said,
when to hold hand, the rage to spare change.
Save yourselves, cry the imaginary sparrows, feed us.
My father is putting the frozen waffles in the toaster oven.
My mother and I have trouble distinguishing ourselves.
Of selves a nest. The kids.
Synthesis of architecture, color, plant material and accessories is sensational!
Labeling could be a little clearer.
Prominence of clothespin dominates the design.
Too opulent. Possibly needs editing.
Weight of handsome rhododendron too heavy.
The stick distracts.
Rhythm disturbed by placement of orchids.
Volume of moss too heavy.