marry me, inter-operational assistance resistance
my poetry is death’s plan b
for yr woe zone of woman work,
cuz, like, it ain’t coping season already?
yr obsolete as a means of gathering yr insides
i’m an unmanageable cruet
filled with intangible suet,
n humans r dust donuts, so
let’s drink sum pornaldehyde
n i’ll be all i can be
were i as dire and renovated as thee .
art, aka unrehearst kink stew,
likes to pretend he’s opposed to
vigilance agenst cheating,
but really he just hired it out,
so wen will u flush the birds
from yr backwards binoculars
n get too swept up to get kikt around?

marry me, unpredictable precondition
with the spark of genius in her hair.

the world’s past me by on its way to me.
i only exist in deleted scenes.
the invisible hypnotist claims another title.

marry me, nonsense as popsicle.

marry me, garbage disposal national forest.
i’m a dreamy ever-fresh
disaster in the leather flesh,
crooked bushmaster of my
ineffectual scheme, eyeing u,
an indelible perfection in my blip,
for the affection of the whomever dart,
trying by lying to make dope
of the hope that this cremation womb,
this mensural cycle, this dim
cross-observation tomb, this
“hot turkey on the lam” is
the start of an impossible relationship.
stop lookin at me
like yr cookin me,
like i’m hookin for free,
quit bookin my trik reflex
for kickin in yr misfit sex shop
n blow the jungle back into my balls
til snorkel head breathes waterfalls
n tweets to the sweets, “how can u
be evrywer cept in my care spotter?”
let my votive storm peal open
yr veal cave,
press my id scan imprint
gentle to yr
mammogrammatology,
stamp this infinite
detour chromosome jam
down the homebound road
to mutual montage mayonnaise,
turn the sponge pistol
on yr dad mess
daughterspout
prophylactery.

marry me, upside down sound.

yr a trifle markt for all pockets,
u pay bigtime to get yr kok stuk in peace out sockets,
a lost man is good to find, no?

marry me, baby ground piano.

marry me, u mock tease of self-reflection.
yr my hed on yr spirit fish,
yr artifice rims my orifice,
wanna put u in lok down n set u free,
wana play space cadet in yr trouble newt,
wana chug yr rubbled piggy chi,
wana tuch myself tuching u,
wana strop my flank lips on yr dug pranks.
ok, so i’ve ben a bad swingset.
unbrad me from the moment
i wuz ment
n maybe i’ll play god to the details
u don’t even have.
i both cannot and can only
revere the riveting morons
that bellow in the oviducts
of yr slobbering carafe.
u purr o u, i purr u too,
we’re the per se i want entre nos nous.

thx for the imaginary cake in my face
thx for the durational performance shoulders
thx for the wanting member laden with gerber trace
thx for the ticklish feminist boulders
thx for the oleander nails on interactive labies
thx for the squirting fanatic daily
thx for the incompetent cats parted by meandering babies
thx for opening yr yurt to my yak
thx for the pre-occupied piper
thx for mounting the trophy kill of my hurt wrack
thx for swimming in my diaper in yr swim diaper
thx for the hater in scrubs
thx for the one day pas to yr silver spork club

my friends, it’s time to bomb the village.
only u shall survive.
n from yr remains
we shall build another
composed entirely
of belly ache pillage,
n in a massive locket rocket
we shall shoot our
revivalist titty recollections
into the impenetrable nite why,
as we sing our hearts out
whilst basking in cheap recreations
of the shit stains of buddha as pest

marry me, ingested in gest.