Thursday, April 20, 2017

Plastic venom eyes,
lemon-colored tongue,
alarmingly cut leather,
limbs fused to a white wall,
body tucked behind Saturn's belt,
terror plowed into a corner,
the lipstick victor, signing her apple,
dowsing her suspects in candy,
batting with one false leg
to strike the other,
ripping the tent's roof
with a vertical shriek,
dashing down infinite aisles
without a cart or a praying pet,
smacking long-handled
silver pans together
with a leer and
without a murmur.

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