One day it will fly in your head
the obscurity of popping bubbles.
hot tea without the cap on
I wriggle by the thought of climax.

Sure thing, but the spring sun glows
but is not as hot.
As the barn-backside.

Glowing shots by the skyscraper licker
heading for bottoms, but bottoms are obscure.
The thought of flowers and sugary plums,
so distant.
It fucks up the clouds.

Distorted guitar swing
from the chocolate-covered boy in the corner.
A bright coloured beetle whispers to me
he asks me to sweep him up.
The cracked avenger who I am
he is swept
I am left dancing with my self
listening to home-made polka.