The Shave.

Did this narwhal
pierce then pull
his own slave-driver’s
eel-driven plows

to a piece of earth
that, squatting
from his ochre mound
of mostly bandaids & soot,

even Watt would find up-
lifting to (well?) observe~
just as in Weymouth Woods
a Russian’s pink ballerina slipper

gurgles to the surface,
almost standing in for
the very spyglass suited
up to that, now quite deflated,

Beatle’s submarine;
nevermind how both
yellow leg, green pipe
we’ll regard for short-

circuiting not to the wareabouts
of Kermit the frog
but some cur[s]mudgeon;
in particular, his red-eyed

fright of (yeah-yeah-yeah)
an eyesocket.
An eyesocket as we pin
both appendages as

‘washed ashore,’
and quite detached
from (ja!)
their respective hubs

of fake plastic
burned-out
and then dropped bulbs.
Meanwhile, these two pissers

we’ll know~as if for apples~
to be bobbing (that’s
when not being crushed)
as the very line and lure

for another one
of their bright-
eyed ideas

 
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