From the Fishouse

Ice in my foot. Ice-foot.

Guess I must sleep
in a stoop
on account
o’ somethin.

Little bag lining me.

Stomach grub loves me

loop knot
lung shot

this I know

serious dipper dipping deeply
in the shade of a double-whip tree tells me so

Soooo… Darkie likes the bull-whip double time.
Darkie’s secret thick. An old whorled bit o’ nuffin.

This is the news, the lookout among us
grateful with asbestosis.

Shhh.

All clear.

Now – an arrhythmia ascot
for Father Farcemeat, the Elder,
the acidic near-invisible one.

Shall we? Hitch Darkie up.

Then we’ll stick him.
Then we’ll defoliate, and wash up for dinner.

Hack hack hack hack hack.

I’m sand and uneven.
I’m so alone.