I'd starve, yet
why not decorate with meat?
Much swill can distill
in a sea trunk
while you still pack high C in A minor.
Studio, studio
apartment, flat-foot walk-up,
five stories high, I
offer you decor of meat,
the longtime trappings of forebears
and homeless, pennywise suits.
A pre-cambrian floor art exhibit,
this stain, this daub,
this bobble
of applesauce
radiates out in relief
and reminds me last week I drank
a frapped mocha
no wait, it was two weeks ago.
Oh, stay! Please stay! We'll play
one game,
one game of ravioli niblick!
Don't bogey that dumpling; that pastry,
though tasty,
is riped and ambitious to breed
green odor that caroms
off sidewalls
en route to le petit jardin.
Why only last week, I met
Charles Bukowski
surfing e.coli on ebay.
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