For the feeling of an apple of coasts to slander the emerald sleeve of my packet of wolf hair joints, I need an island to suppress — in hindsight — the tepid quatrains of stencilled yellow-orphan-nigger-faces on my dog’s dick.
Rejecting my own complexion for subtle nuances
for pages stuck together with discharge from starfish prostitute babies, their brown surf perched on my face, is necessary only as I fluctuate my upper-limbs in June / the yr 2134, holiday stalls were something like Raj
& the yr 11097
where my bus ticket cascades another Roman numeral. I think it was XVI.
Maybe my age is the only diachronic factor worth clutching in this phone shop. Six millenniums from now, my next phone bill will blow dry another relic from the history of somebody else’s ‘elite salesman time piece’.
My island treasury — of drunk grains of sand blooming inside flaccid turtle necks — sounds like the hysteria of a deck chair measuring some salty acorns. Or the pillowcase of a spearheaded priest projecting his longitudinal awareness on my corn-on-a-cob
scumbling my transparent dash icon Ego
my keypad settings succumbing to lemon-grass symbols
like dead whisky on jaded road signs
my mothers-pussy-cannon-fodder
& the heat’s precipitation simmering
the striped undercurrent on
my socks
