I’m probably the last monster
Or the least appreciated Minotaur.
What is that anyway? My body,
Abrasions of religious experience,
Left for dead in Oregon suitcases.
Coffee makes us stupendous!
Do not like Balzac hurt me.
Let nothing bad ever happen
to my balls. Like kids named Zack
Who mistake my sack for devilled eggs.
Find something else to snack on Zacks!
The two trophies are all I’ve got.
It’s them and me and most of the time
We just hang out.

I go up the dusted pine needles to the forest
where I will explain a few things to myself
Like how can one radio station play all the greatest hits
& are my knees really small?
I look at them today and feel that they are
smaller than my eyelids
smaller when I use them to pray
for rain or for Meatloaf to come on the radio at work
or for Meatloaf himself to come out of the radio
& put me on his flaming motorbike
& ride me buckshot towards his Meat Lair
on top of Calabasas Peak
I am in love with every fat man I see
& this is inescapable to me
how they make my heart weep
meat-flavoured persuasions
& why are you making me a latte
when what I really want
is for you to hold me
& roll me into a ball of my future self
& hyperextend my inveretebrate heart
murnurmurnurmurnurmurnur
again and again my bon vivant!
My corpulent consort! You make my knees weak
as my body presses down on them, these twigs
or pegs and on top of them my head
from its precarious perch, it looks, it lifts
& each day it partakes
on the same level as my knees
& together we convene and conspire
to solve these mysteries

When we camped out, you
called the sun “the Original Internet”
and we ate Cheetos out of the bag
which, I’ve decided, means
that everything we’ve ever done has been a waste.
Orange index fingers,
Sabre Tooth Tiger,
our IKEA camp site is on fire.
Everything we’ve ever done
has orange finger prints on it.
The cops are coming.
Put on your balaclava.

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