Lady Brioche ate herself to deathare sure-shot accountants

Producing a set of candle holderseat the sister’s clean shoes

But wasn’t it the end of all dayson the edge. Bullets strung across their bosoms

Under Lady Nell’s labiahad never witnessed childbirth

O poet anesthesiologist, in myin my family

Favorite arboretum a lawn chairjudge of the sandbox, never paying rent

Tumbles and a wolf in hiking shortsone month’s rent among char-broiled millions

Unlit, culling Laramie’s uncertainNah. I jam frequently

Ate the bear, ate all the bedsheetsblah blah blah. A lightning bug reads a little magazine

We offered a tour of the towerslike two bouncers on

Detained by the arid sweatshop andDaffy Duck’s soft red lips.

Wand. Ventricle. Man-eatingday. Is the bullshit on Oprah broadcast round the world?

O Mort, con artist on the verge of becoming tooSorry, the mountain’s closed. On a tray

On the myrtles, insectstea, the black cypresses, the president?