Banana Pudding Tequila God and Heaven

by Shaina

Any responsibility I have to a self is shredded wheat cake and disassembles in the presence of most liquids: most think of milk but anything//
salacious bodies lie on the gum-tarred sidewalk and flap fish-like in search of
orgasm, a veil dropped behind the eyes rather than lids

maintains decorum within, without is dissolved and on display for passersby
who wouldn’t bother anyway–the body could be a corpse or a tree or a box.  Doesn’t
matter.  The sticky sweatpants will affect almost nothing.  My pillow talk

is of being dead in the ground without the interest for something more.  The third rub
on the lamp evoked a thick smoke that dried the wheat, almost set fire to it: a body that said euthanasia should be available on grocery store shelves.  What if your child…

“yes, it’s sad.”  Community of frigid underlings?  Underlying?  Outlier?  Interred?  Flung out or even strung out in the cosmos, one toe in Earth’s atmosphere, dipping it, buying milk and naked?  Seven layer dip served out of a guy’s head while he sits on the cement,

loafers and shorts, maybe lost a job or found Valhalla in a urinal: many will win, few will enter?  I am reduced to the powder at the bottom of the bag but consider that a step

toward firmness and the construction of sap to amber, while I trap you transparent, beetle, we might’ve been syrup but now head toward jewelry, ornament exhibition tomb.  From what I understand, the choice of death quick and cozy could be taxed.

Advertisements