I'm finally healthy enough to construct "poetry" although I'm not exactly sure if I have succeeded. It sort of reminds me of this piece of art I saw in the art building today. It was just a bunch of crumpled paper glued to a broom. Is that art? Maybe. Is this poetry? I don't know. I'd like to think so.
trading nipple-clamps
but still no arrow-ero-air-o-planed
looking for but with cotton-candy toothpaste
sandy Sandra Dee pours reefer
although grainy Drano photos
sweat yellow number five
and with orange slouchings
and with douchebags
and with battery powerings by Science
and with without
preferring Kodak avocado
if poetic upgrades sleaze-dried Gatorade
oh, the needle-point bake-sales
oh, the pleasantly plump
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