MY RED SINK

I woke up down
her blurred butt smooth
but I better stand up now
so I can stay with the car.

No, stop staying tha..
staying WITH that.
Stop staring at me with goat nuclei.
Their election clouds stick on me,
spinning at me with sticks poking out,
their tines tie my hairs into cherry stems,
reddish hairs alighting onto the sink surface. It lit it with a redder hue.

I slip a cherr bomb right down the hatch.
The room's edges tremble, explosive reformation counting down
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0
-1, -2, -3, -4, -5, -6....ahhhh,,,

My shagged rug has felt suspiciously like the feeling of drawing zoo animations,
those purposed to search for the depth of wonders
and to carry the dirt to the surface.

Here's a picture of
my newly sharpened farmhand shovel and I.
There I am, digging into a word count tenderly abandoning the art of the needle
So, No more tattoos,
they won't last as long as my table medicines or my coded face novel might.

May they always mean to keep my google moving
as a miracle should.

Blurry bones appear from the deep yearly rains' floods and lay beside me,
They peer clearly cut out of a mudslide magazine,
slide to sliding, her sidling and oscillating hips,
reanimated, dreaming about brother Poseidon's mud wrestling ring.

"Broseidon!," I said to the sink, waking myself up.
Forever was all that answered and
all that were in there were eerie hairs.
Such eerie folicles waver with eyes on the ends,
arranged like amoebas cultured with red cumin cake as bait.
Around the bathroom's rim, their bloody redrum cilia tickle the porcelain.

You know people say the cilia killed Pilgrims,
I have it someone's honor though that someone skinned em and robbed em BRONZE.
yes, their eyelids fixed like reluctant pool covers closed for the season,
the soft reddish tides come in again, cumin cultured, yet statuesque with time
priming pumps of black to fade the red blood back to blue,
pushing the volume that had pooled into the optics like food.

I'm fixed, I think, I see red--a strong colour like bricks or tape,
I'm kept alive and cultured,
I'm alive, culturally, the pack kept me on my alien feet,
allowed to handle cherry-pitted ladies if I can.
Please keep it up, they say, so I stay with the vehicle.
On the road I drive through some leftover forests, keeping me breathing,
with no slaves around to shuck sugarcane, life is harder than ever.
my pickup though, can find any detour, I think.
that's necessary for survival of the fittest, I thought,
the fittest survive so I work out a lot,
pumping iron is the miracle of "he still lives!"

My teeth are bare in the mirror,
like a lions' stuffed under his golden-red coat shining on the painted savannah.
I watch a mother tending cubs and teaching lies about the afterlife,
"Lion cubs are stupid bastards," I think, "learning about life in a museum."

My mother carries wild cats in her car.
This one cat she has is something like red plastic.
She's blind as mines but strong and proud.
She wears cool black glasses, which perch on her like a pretty pose.
She dreams of endless trees, forever scented on her cellulose nose.
The dirt a forest prefers lies atop many brazen, beaten foes.
And each of the trees leans towards the light, growing green boxy blankets.
She never imagines cuddled sheets such as those,
yours and those cherry-colored underclothes.

The futuristic boabab tree cleans me easily like a needle,
with my clothing off, I sleep naked, awoken now next to her,
awake,
I woke up from the haze again cherried with concern in our red camry.
Sometimes she worries about me..
The ten years' average shaved off of me reminds her that it's real and makes her feel alive,
I feel that I'm real alive, that I'm "real", kept alive.
I'm all about self-improvement and so I'm not in a coma.

My comas remind my friends of life value properly, without maroon cake on their minds,
they're cultured, they drink red rum and coke---
what a miracle!