Vomited on asphalt by the dog,
I spill towards black-lacquered toes
behind the fence. I venture: Mommy?
The toes wiggle as they kick me away. I struggle
in the air; the dense smoke-screen. I pass urine
as they twinkle: You were never my kid or your father's.

Flying past the grass, I wonder at the cubism;
the pebbles and gopher stools hidden from view.
The toes turn to heels. Door slam:
You're a bastard. That's truth of it.
Three seconds fall. I land on the road,
waiting for a good set of tires. The lorries
breathe down my slime. I shiver, afraid to decide:
a final death or another mother.

This is highly irrelevant to the absinth: the thalamus has its own rules (unannounced) and tart smell of sadness.

A dedication on the book supplants the original author.

He/ She -- hereafter known as subject -- traverses the hedge maze at Schönbrunn Palace. It is open to the public during office hours while everyone adds curry to the scandal.

The lab mouse is cirrocumulus, curdled milk, a bulk of geese.

Why eschew this self-portrait as if a subliminal process had taken place and saccharine came out of volcanoes (extinct)?

Subject wants cranberry juice, Dolby Surround, blunt scissors, copper blue.

Both selves would like to buy a vowel right now for a flying potato head title.

After hours of polishing the silver, he/ she gets is a reflection: a flat chest that may be epitomized as hairy up-close.

The meticulous sinner always goes back to square one: abduction, Adam, adultery, advance death benefits.