Many a mother mutters lullabies après plastic surgery.
Tight-lit glowworms gnaw at Kaiju and Kaiju rankles,
glowers into enemy frowns—Evil Ferocious—Monster!
Zero, he lures moms through Chinatown’s wet barking
buskers. Something’s clearly in the air, yet he reddens
like Italian sausages. (Look which language this pigeon
chooses.) He screws me through a sky and space writ
large above the perky crickets. He sees twentieth century
masterpiece “Half Full of Stitches, Onward”—crafts its
democratic buzz to stay the horndogs of inevitability.
Each red dragon chews them up, gives us all a rubber
complex-bot, chucks the green-bruised birds into the
burnt-out sky. How varied our dim bulbs’ white lies
echo—each frilly fib halves our [dorkening] blade!
