After supping on said repast,
settling paunchily down
before the crystalline screen,
the vermilion stratosphere
slew several sleek and
rather wickedly gray
auroras silkily about.
It confounded my third ear,
sounding like the archangels of yore
tripping on Bach in bespoke fedoras.
The last tree was gloomily blooming
and as I past my mind beneath it's
insane and otherworldy scent
all hate-free wrung by the supersurprise of it
I chewed on that uberurban legend's cud-
Two youths in a cement barrel,
murderously bored and without
routes of egress eschewed
flaying each other to bits
on national TV and without
an iota of intention re-invented
kissing.
