A Tomb of Spaghetti
Onward, soldier! You’re looking
fist to mouth. Beware of the
worst nightmares and sick
balls of meat. Stop talking
on the verge of tears and
cue up dinner. A
big spoon of heaps
of just no good. Make things
100% lovely after speeding through
really nice and we shouldn’t hang out
any more. What? Order more belching
into the telephone. I was speechless
dating him. Call me up you can’t
even think. Done with seeing
someone Tuesday. Murder
a bloody tissue. Yeah,
I thought so Mister
Fakester, Mister
Sauce in your Cups.
And I toasted you, too.
Mister Sinister with the
woody chianti of a
bled-out heart.
I toasted your face
to the spoons of Miami
til your hide was an umber
to behold. You’re no good to
my mouth til that fizzled fist
pops it off the green. All good
oak goes to toothpick. Amen,
soldier. Amen, fizzled fist.
