Every
Beatles song was written with her in mind
Even
the ones you can’t kill to
There
was a blueberry hill and that’s where I lost my thrill
Pat
Gunn has built my last two desktops
He’s
always proven to be smarter than the AI he’s studying
He
takes direction like he was born in the theater
I
have a headache, but it’s my own damn fault
Some
pot goes down easy while other strains make you choke and take generic Advil
I’m
gonna wait before I jump to the conclusion this pot needs to be returned to sender
Shady
deals in some rural outpost where inflatable swans float by like marshmallow
clouds. I can’t stop choking, might be time to call the paramedics or a
reformed Rabbi
I
desire to slide into her like a bookmark or the pointed tip of a tailor’s very
sharp needle
Milton
Berle had a horse cock and used to fuck Marilyn Monroe like a bowl of red borsht
at The Russian Tearoom around noon and after eight o’clock
I
don’t know why I’m mentioning that other than I’ve been trying to fit his horse
cock into a poem for what seems like decades now
Back
to Kat Boyd and her astronomic wavelength, transmitting only to the rain dogs who
believe in universal healthcare for all animal, vegetable and plant life
I
slipped on a banana peel and instead of laughing we made pudding from our tears
I
was too lazy to pick my own blueberries so instead I ordered a short stack of blueberry
pancakes and pretended I was once a captain of industry
7/29/19
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