60 years with black bags for
eyes in bibs desperately scuttling
round pathetic excuse for a bakery
slash come-on tit-bit side-sales,
cartoon animals and stupid cocktails
sticking up to get the husband-
runny to buy the display wine:
you gotta stand the dustbin-bunny by;
ignoring the following face and eyelids,
the unstoppable auto-sluice,
the Ice-Dream Machine-Juice,
the fake Hawaiian stick-rug things
and stuck-upperrings of bunseeds-in
thick frames, that are painful backdrops-in
her struggling somnambulish visions -kick in
the frigging thing quick
and ditch the bib you dead bitch!
Run for your wife Flora before a
grave thought slithers under your life,
and the cracks open up beneath you like a knife!
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