That fly is four days old! Shes way over her daily allowance.
Thirty-one flavors strawberry dirt bubble Foster flamb
on one-hundred-and-seventy-five degree sidewalk cement.
Forty-one sixteen, stock-ticker red for an old Malibu;
full tank at the fifth avenue Speedway three-hundred sixteen
feet per compressed fluid, spark ignition.
Phone lines, LAN lines, calling all cars CB pulse,
microwave radiation passing, phasing, parading
through finger-stain purple silicon skies.
Green rivers of subconscious though cascading
from rushing mind mouths. He really looks quite silly
in that flight suit. Animals and humans separated
by the degree to which they are preoccupied
with matters other than survival. I think
I'll drink tea and play a mandolin. Truck Grill!
Biological statistics in neon yellow.
Theres Suzy-Q, shes five-foot-two,
loves Johnny Rotten with her chemical cloud,
and coalesced out of Elvis Costello and Jenny Sparks
in a Petri dish with electric pulse Tesla coil
Sunny skies, smiling faces,
and its on good authority
that Gods vacationing
in the Hamptons.