"Horrible Guests"
This event (so clear may turn around) is divided by
promise through my recognizable focus over
noodles in a mobile cup; of course, bad logic
is part of the germ which hones in my hereditary
hunger for the Splashing Jack near chimes
that service against mountainous winds with
your tricolored fox. (That’s to say, a poker
sticker sits between texts on a radical college
without so much to please our rage than to
comply out of literary discounts across from
a faded store logo.) A desert worn as filthy
ice transforms my favorite colors of land
into transitioned features upon angry insects
who shake heads as they conflict of personal
feat to steal hot sauce, up against some
antiquated records only to present on secondary
reflections the solid light when it sinks into
dead treasures that rattle my Switch.
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