Night is
of the fruit pie.
Tom Cruise
drops his pants,
howls at the nutmeg
in his spurning.
I hollow
out the dewdrop
and carve into it
a niche whereby I
might pass the night.
And Charisma Carruthers
a dayplant personality,
wilts in the baggage of
wood floor refinishers and
unfolding card players.
It is amazing how
snurpt the purns can become
when the yight of wacamorni
has set.
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