assurance


tell me about your pain, organ grinder.
I run the bocce league in this sector.
I’ve made my own hurt beyond the legend
I thought I’d secured. I’m gonna talk to
the studio about this tyrant director.

Mercury’s in retrograde, that’s why you
forgot your oven mitts. Maybe you should
have stayed on pedestrian island. I recall
my apprenticeship with Hephaestus, dueling
crockpots and pie crusts like the London blitz.

it’s your mania – own it, don’t pawn it.
Rice cakes will remain relevant throughout
disintegration. The clause is standard, no room
for negotiation, hardly the slough of despond.
every shithead wordsmith is armed with a
dream and a Jamie Lee Curtis scream.

and where will you be watching this wondrous
weirdo fantasy, this nationally televised razing
of your only and greatest century on the motel
blankets? you’ll be thigh-deep in Crystal Pepsi
undulations in the burnt umber-pasted recovery room
of the truant apocalypse. After you, Lady Di.

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