Millions of wriggling thoughts burrow
into the stanktastic dirt
of the massive ridges of my brain.
Ravines plunging down to gaping electric nothings.
No room for modesty in the grotesque.
Worms in a crystal pot,
boiling over with sparks of foam,
Maybe the curtains will catch flames
and burn right up the bean stalk.
Now would be a good time to mention that I live in a giant baked bean.
Bring the giant tumbling down to here!
Cook the golden goose and scramble the eggs with cheddar cheese.
The kingdom of clouds becomes a mess and lunch.
I feel larger
and friendly with my own bouncing
pies of inspired mud.
And you should too!
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