Vehemently fried and not so ambiguous,
we get lazy on the lazy eye,
crying about kitchens
and mauling the metropole.
No gum, no soul. No shoes, no junk.
The skunk advisor that put us here
is confused about climes.
Where exactly does the separation occur?
We invalidate parking and already,
the post is ghost, the deets drip.
Here’s where the real fun starts.
The art of being casual about everything
farts in the dark and enflames
my sentience with a frugal beat.
It’s like a treat for toppling.
Or a cop hocking lemons to leaves.
Bereavement in the postmodern fashion.
All passions are pitiless.