"T is for Turd Burglar"
Glial mortmain Atari, garden is.
Taller than the things we cannot love,
Ashheaps of plenty; delicate throes amiss.
My life seems tough as Rubik cubes to prove
At snail crossings where diphthongs betray
And floods amass their waters. Weary treason
Provides. It is an order. Eighth of May
In a truthforsaken year, and still no reason
But pounds dark apothegms, horizons swarthy [thee]
With promise. Now that everything's been pried [pride]
'Life just teems with quiet fun,' wannabe
Shrapnel. In the chores of suicide [side]
A lug nut ricochets beyond recall,
And we lose consciousness surf-sifting infall.
