Version III

The Ambassador of McDonalds is Her Firstborn Bomber

for J.G., the Swede with the weed

Little did you know that if I killed you would be no less? I am writing and pulling out my nose hairs for the inspiration. My nose hairs are not marked individually for resale.

Wrong and only you feel charm crush under your foot like snow in the woods. My mama´s.

Get left unsaid they take my knife good in a pinch for it. Four its splice in the distance into eight. Writing is not fucking and fucking is not writing. Grownup sausages look obese and way. Got the same old bag got the death penalty morbidly. And now you try it Mr. Ambassador of French-fries.

McDonalds or the handiwork of former Baltic spies slice you open for bold exposition from a distance from cranial cavity to toe jam. Smoked sausages from a Hungarian New Wave film are also in the air. Falling blades are also in the air, a burning cat is also in the air. What do you do with the knife when you´re alone? A my-papa´s-gone-for-good on a moonless night.

And. The judges´ silencing exercise:
The Supreme Juices got theirs. Sausages grow up to be such intolerant nose hairs, sometimes. Are you the Ambassador of breakfast, lunch, and dinner?
Without that razor wire fence you´re nibbling on, you´d go hungry. But you´re in my entirely female owned and operated dreams and in my sappy ammo shop too.

Sugar slogans of the rotting apples:
You´re the personal belongings in my drawer . . . you´re all that I´ve saved in my way . . . you´re all that I´ve violently anticipated. So what if I don´t. Thumb on over, bring the dead cat.

Cat skull preoccupation (four-wheel drive regrets):
Did someone grind off the porno-bars from the apartment last night? So what if the mailman of jukeboxes and car radios refuses to cut any of his lines? I´m still waiting for the parenting skills and a way into this world.

I thought I told you that we won´t snow today and my body is eating its own lymph. Jambalaya on my mind, car radio beams nick me like light. Windows to your basement. He´s the railroad´s best nightmare–sane as I´d eat for a meal. He says he´s all thumbs when it comes to the boudoir. Pummel is such an ugly word.

Hairs looking at me slantwise:
Fingering Cain´s polished matches, in a mindless crusade against Midwestern anuses of progress, the Marquise penned innuendo after innuendo–lewd cross-hair sausage. His inner thigh scarred by the fingernails of fortune, his faith marred by French-fries, played to the hilt of angry publishable fiction, “Fucking–I don´t care for or." If you are reading this, and you are not the author of this piece please disregard i.e., Give no credit. (This writing is not real.) Rustic suits US soldiers in Iraq better. I dream of my temperaments on a dish talking about hurt, doing themselves and all of the kitchen appliances watching me in a soapy foam. (Zenith, GE, Pulsemaster) Fornicate into the bagged heads of journalists, into their ears “your marriage was never un-corkscrewed." You´ll pay taxes and stop yammering.


The All-American dream come true. Marine after marine, link after link, whisper upon whisper: “we´re going to fuck you."

She lipped his wood, out back in the toolshed before the canonized tenure-hounds. Friction tape, cat skull, razor, knife chitchat, and the All-American dream of the perfect blowjob wait shelved in my toolshead for a snowy day.

However, the soldiers don´t have the tensile strength to think of themselves. They wish to fuck for America–in the abstract sense of anal-sex. I though I told you that we won´t wash our dishes or look where we keep the rotten apple cores you´ve eaten but still keep to inspire future perversions.

Name me three popular atrocities that make me conscientious, wild goose faces gazing off in every which way. Heat filament toolshead one snowy day poisoned bees in the attic. Lover is at the gate.

Addressee, fire those unlawful muses charm the Midwest via email.

The white spaces between these letters are the dark Hungarian sausages of the unsaid.

Poetry´s sausages are full of caveats and asides to whomever it may concern to spit in my mouth. I film propriety everyday. Ask to the sky, I lied to you about the Hungarian New Wave film purportedly being screened in my head, torso, and lower chakras. All writing is a lie my sausage-links to society.

On top of your pornographic body the abusers are observing what insides you have habitually made use of. You box!
Wood-veneered dreamboat. Grainy vices like yours are just made for Mediterranean romance fables. Novels set off against the azurite sea.
Painted on eyebrows like yours fading off into the sinks of the temples of your head, which sits propitiously. Caesural, in a wink, the muumuus hit the fan. “Smooching" sounds. And everyone is listening to the. This is just poetry.

I feel under my armpits the pebbles of progress. What folklore is that? Measured out in “How do you dos?" To tell her, he fastened his music to her Abel´s revenge. Miner cuts on wooden dowels and lamp cord himself like music rings up in my imagination.

The paddy fields where smokeless powder. And I say parallel on the torture-victim´s fields of vision in Vietnam. He fastened to your curiosity, stew enough for all of god´s children.

How may I help you, in your jaws? Midwest Americana in the kitchen protesting to the heat. I don´t want me to set the world on fire.
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