The purple oysters of my teeth have a crisis that is the sky.
Like dead children running cons in a cricket’s brain,
they bounce off the juicy wall of time’s recombinant sausages.
This process leaves grease-trails who later become politicians.

Nobody listens to the farts of earthworms anymore.
Instead they make news-dolls with which they attack their ancestors.
All the graveyards are angry about being cheated out of their fame.
Go ahead, mention our previous discussion about plastic fig posturing.