18 Looking for an Opening

Come whittle away the halves
of the greyhound's hairbrush.


The Great Unlimited Lightning Machine,

minus undesirable fiberglass

nighties, stuffed in during the
masquerade,

awaits 'The Runt', purported to be
the only man capable

of turning the switch

back from the dead.

[Cue guitars].


Ahh, Miss Thorne's 'tortuous' cardigan
and stylish aromas...

a quick mount in the back of the
while-u-wait appliance store,

risking a complementary custody

in some serious chains.


Our jelly hearts fluttering,

unfortunate reminders of former
anniversaries:

the pleading and harassments,
capped off with melting 'emeralds';

the thrashing like canines,
wide girths draped across
mohair modules;

the best stilt movie ever ruined
by commandos;

and the traumatic gurgle
of bacon-induced cardiac arrest.



The Skin Graft Bat
respires anomalously,

its wax corneas
yet one more edible.


Medical bicycles as ever fall
apart in the talcum mines

due to uncontrollable rumps'
coughing backfire.


A never-to-be rescued
'pearl' oven

rears backwards in the canal.



Chairman Half-a-Nothing,
(who was certifiable)

shone ever crimson,

an uncouth 'star'

up one big green itch:

the partial skeletons
of pygmy models

spin in the company
roulette wheel.


His lost list of favorite naps

tucked under a broken ashtray.