mmmmdccclxix

Charisma

Loony boners.
Ratso Rizzo, his
own personal ren
dition, wreaks havoc
in his skull.  And cross
bone.  Elder abuse!  He bl
esses hisself as if a hermit
who’s just sneezed, and his
thoughts with logic twist the
stick, the time-stick.  The DeL
orean’s taken him back to three.
He has to pee.  It’s not the stretch
it presumes to be; but also there’s
Pop’s more mature at 3 than 23, or

so many variations of it they have 

clogged my brain, making clangy

clamor of all my inner xylophones.
And yet, to think, it puffed my pride,
he felt me good, knew me better
than I did most of our parallel co
existence.  Will it be pesty-lints 

or plehzure? .. I’ll take playtime
over the pits anytime!  I see
myself spit like a marshy
mallow on fire as it is
blown for the palate

into the hole where

that pal resides.  A
tongue becomes.
Softest sweetest
landing for the
carbonated
sugar.  The
ooey goo
goes
down
and the
tongue knows
well how to curl itself del
icately around, holding and
caressing to milk such divine
treasure from carbon-crusted lump, 

then down the throat it goes, the charred 

gob in ecstatic gustatory symbiosis, like a 

sweat-stained dream of being stuck on an 

amusement park ride at the point where eu

phoria, say, slams against a wall of vomit that 

never quite erupts, so that even the discomfort 

pleases.  Multiply by all the sexual allusions that a 

bird-brain, if duly pressed, might muster. And the meta

phorical fists explode into snaps, the swollen synapses 

burst in climactic closure.  Re-leaf most abundant!