Thigh Scan Sea
Waddle when offal dings
wear on staring wasps,
blubbery dunes trenching
umpteen harried pharaohs
into thigh scan sea.
Brothel Fix
Wrongly elaborated
fuel conspirator brothels
fix maladroit corrosion fossils,
golfing with an attache when windy
in spavined seizure’s daylight moon cartel.
Metaparadox
Some things cannot be
expressed in words alone.
How curious that so few words
suffice to say so.
Percolating Beauty
Nod wholly,
somehow to self,
pernicious in high-rent teasing,
growing sluggish in festering toppled digs,
plausibly too hot for inguinal breastplate taters,
hip to percolating beauty’s recoiling elation,
ground to coinage by horned bailiffs
with twitchy fervent neighbors
in seashore’s graven affront of
spiny fuselage cordon trance,
wedged between flotation drills
of mastermind teeth acres.
The Sequel Kid
Who’d humbly wind
two canned, old oars,
stopping a bloated souse
with demolition quads,
plopping planned precision
in delta makings of a hero’s
foolish scourge?
Neckties mock emasculated
tundra from hinterland speak,
quelling squelches of the Sequel Kid
with gross rotation Midianites
in par-four coughing gorges,
whaled between the Groin Canton
and Lago Prowler, huffing with
tufa nerds in slattern, hairy comas.
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