The Blue Leaves stem from the floor of the furnace,
which places its head on the pillow next to you
In a bed of cow chips glued together
by mysterious shrapnel.
The oldest line segment in the world receives for its birthday
a monetized phylum who bites his tongue in victory.
Yet the rosin winks its eye at the passing puddle
floating about 'sept pounces' above the honeyed fjord
Never able to dance for her father as the hearse sells hair spray
from its unhinged jaw, tail-lights awaiting the jury's cough.
"You can't scull-fuck an onion ring!" screams the garden fence.
"But pajama bottoms on a car horn can bring a snort," replied the terabyte
just as it pointed towards the eyepiece for a long, projected period of silence.