An artist at work bubbles up
from this universal centerpoint,
this twirl of a thought unsuspended
from the treasure room.
For a few seconds, I thought
he had an American flag,
that he was anxious
for the Republic,
for prayer mat confessions,
for the sins of the moderate
in the relaxed pose
of sadistic degeneracy,
wobbling on the crooked platter
of an out-of-control
MINING ELEVATOR.
This, his emotional state
of being just shy of overachievement,
scoping a supernatural arm for a magic spot
to pierce the vein and groove.
In future conversation a mental shift
shall be applied where the insertion
of the word
"PROBOSCIS"
in place of
"PENIS".
<with nary an explanation>
This burden is a gift of proboscis and vagina.
Where natural impulses are to gyrate
with proboscis
STRAINING
the crotch of ubiquitous trousers,
IT just desires to be free,
to taste the open air
of atmospheric envelope.
"Mmm", she cooed.
Love of the taste of proboscis
in the flickering ecosystem
where the branded consciousness
of a rogue entity named M.I.K.E.,
exists.
There are millions of individual species
within my mind, which is HERE
in the jungle around you.
YOU can call ME
Mr. Hunt.
Together,
we shall nurture
the gigantic snails,
above all.
