Peeling back my kiwi fruit foreskin,
With green mottled fur,
With soft blue spots which give
When I press into them,
I suddenly realize, my ethereal dove,
My Maalox-inducing cupcake,
Gnome-kisser, bucolic gamboller
Gambling on my inn sanity
When all my horses have left the barn,
That I miss you like denture paste,
Like a firm outdoor deposit,
Like a bolted institutional TV,
Like a psalm in my cart blanch.
Free up my innards from the squelch
Of untreated pre-incontinence
And discombobulated hosannahs
On loan from a musty sixteen-hunnerd page hymnal.
Whip my tenderness
Into a pastiche of Pre-Cambrian sludge
Plastered on the shoulders of roads and toads
I (plastered) blather on and on with in verse,
Harumphing and galumphing in gutters,
My dis-eased bride of nightwatch.