Statement Of Intent

  1. We will luck into bra-straps thrice daily, pull the drawstrings into our teeth for breakfast—
  2. Dance with cataleptic intent, the box of chili diminishing to the institutional breakfast, or a lark—
  3. Pull down the pants of a Bantamweight’s lunchbox snack, clickety-stacked, crumbling the duck like a Match Box tire—
  4. Wallace’s rawhide knuckle wallet, walnuts, chewing hard on a mouthful of felt, soccer, suction cups, a thimble—
  5. Sign all letterheads “love Sid,” bark at the tollbooth like a frog, set the strings of your pajama bottoms on fire—
  6. Fiddle with squids, take them to task, dance like a truck does the birthday rumble—
  7. My scrotal unhooks like a roll of toilet paper: chocolate, chalk, Trakl, talk show: fuck the doomed rodents, let them stain
  8. Bleach your nostrils like a hooded sweatshirt; I’m very pleasant to wash—
  9. Dash you to threads, purple lady, leap on some trashy, you are the darling of what Marty’s girl sting—
  10. Slip and inhale the wickets!

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