Love is a many-splendored thing
with tentacles.

“Ding-dong, the witch has snacks,
that Rax hires blacks
and Jack hates jacks.
Which old witch?
Fool, how many witches you know?
Shiiiit.”

Felt manacles felt fantastical
when I was bound
to the brownie hound
(a giant cartoon dog
with a love for fudge,
not my dirty neighbor who mooned the judge).

To judge the moon is to prune your doom,
its mood is construed as rude
by those who’ve measured its glows.

The hose grows a nose when I close
my eyes to a slit but peek a bit
and the world lies in blurs the size
of the space on my face
where the air escapes.

Seeping sleep hisses out of your pores
while little brother pisses on lists of chores
animal crackers crack under the weight
of a mailman waiting for Annabelle’s date.

Joy, joy, the Christmas bear
flew into a rage and pulled out his hair,
Dancing Clancey’s pants were fancy
enough that the cops took an interest in him
and made him down a fifth of gin
before they made him spin spin spin!

Like a sprinkler of vomit
a comet of bile
shot from poor Clancey’s face-part while
the cops ran for cover
and Eldaway’s mother
opened an umbrella just in time
and I ate a lime just to make it rhyme.