How Now, Muff-Fed Rumpus?
by Elisabeth Workman
And finally just the sound of security guards
hanging out in a meadow. With the bib on
sort of. Sort of feeling my heart
beating royal people, their mantles trimmed
with ermine, Mentos looming just beyond
the unforeseeable American diet.
Something from thence unto the beaten land:
Britney in a sauna, codependencies swirling
in the ilium. The place of frilly playthings
of the ancient emperor unfurled Pop Tart
rebellion in descriptions more romantic
than their executions. By contrast, electric
meats. How now, muff-fed rumpus? You
and your leopard & falcon huntress, Stalin
is on a chicken diet. TTFN! Execute a new
mafia scene in a spa experience then pass
out. Pass pastures, imply bloodletting, flop
impishly among tulips. How minions made out
belied any difference between empires. What
news abroad? Here, provinces, drink and fear
not what we say, they said, eat laser beams and
shoot them from your eyeballs, stay hungry,
live forever. Onward, blitzed light units. Lupine
the pinup, and lions toxic to purr the muffled drum.
From Ultramegaprairieland
A review in Little Reviews for Busy People
