A Valentine for Gwar

Life is a meshugannah Pollock hummingbird hitback exercise. Rounding third base in poetry is like that ezra zebra abracadrabra brouhaha I was telling some maruspials about yesterday in a comment box. Keep the "if" hotness. it may end up being your ox.
You may refinance your ox and live off its equity one day. That's poetry. Nobody ever confuses the Whore Book with the Domesday Book. Which is, like, such a shame.
Trust was just a sadly misgauged fauna glue which had Evilness raisins in it. What's in it, are you in it? "Here is a feverfewed flounder I floured in Florence for Frieda." Those back trees are homicidal. They had an orgy back there. Arrogant jellies. I don't talk to them.

So too that time i was overrun by phalloi. So what about Big Blue jobs and sick Wittgensteinian oxen? Should we give words a chance the way a Whale was once a sorta Wolf? Philip, the while is "an homicidal sunflower." who said that? Feigners have charismatic bad pumping mechanisms. After a divorce, there is a cloud one speaks inside. Jonquils never stop their orgies, never quit their day jobs. "Happy Epidemiological Something day," I tell a tarred & feathered Moose. Eros make sure you are. More a for in self.

Deer sure do feign and get divorced a lot. Sure do.

But remain charismatic somehow.

Epistemological oddkin bodkins!

I awake and realize I am the out in peace out.

This is a good thing, like Gwar in a Welsh kid's lamby head.

I am hungry for the cookie dough of the soul.

I will eat it until it engirths me, and I engirth it, respond to it, and fill it full of the charge of the cookie dough soul.

An impress is a tiny imp who rules over itty bitty elves.

Thou liest, Slave!

Oh, give me something here.

Tell me poetry invented the Spork or something.

Don't just lie there playing with your ass pretending you're the Faerie Queen that way.

An impress has no subjects which are not a reflection of her selves.

I meant elves.

I know a butterfly who Googles itself sometimes.

Sometimes much.

When it feels migration might just be the wrong note of sincerity

for the party it is trying to begin by inviting the Dead.

It dabbles in the urban. The way Oprah believes in Jonathan Franzen's hair

when it is on fire and she is talking to him as though he were her true lesbian love.

The eyes are the only punctuation I trust really.

A lummox ox and an Oxnard lox will never see eye to eye.

But that proves nothing about God's acquiescence.

Language has such pretty locks.