Drawings of Leaves and Hands

I was never a dog owner
or a fish lover
or the kind to look at a mushroom
and feel any kind of
kinship

I never knew the scent
of a gerbil's
breath
or of dry blood
or of a blanket reeking
of skin oil
and rain

I kept love
I kept it like time
I slept in it
and never
dreamed

Skull Missing

Women with promises and gallery tickets walk through the pediatric damage zones. I fixate on one daughter of a moist realm and imagine her with the hair of a seemingly charming Muslim. I fill her heart with cold animal blood and steal her genius ideas about soil potential. The women keep coming and I lose track of this one I chose. They keep coming, stuffing the throat of our city.

Shame Cell

You remember the game we played. The yellow yard, the outboard motor, the piles of rebar. You remember the damp masks we wore when we crossed the clothes on the line. The crying doves, the kidney-shaped watering can, the place where we buried the rabbit when its fear settled into its flesh and brought it into the cold. You remember the taste of the pennies we found in a jar under his tools and his ashtrays.

Searing Splatter-Rock Tantrums

Raid the archives of the decorative self-operated family impersonators! Wreck yourself on the cohesive harmony of genetic blasphemy!

Drum Machines at Their Fartiest

It will be pleasant for me if you want with me to research bleeding-edge automotive technology. You have very much interested me. It will be very pleasant for me to find the friend or second half through the Internet. At supervision of your structure I very much have become interested in you. My name is Anna. If you want with me to explore the outer limits of furniture design then write to me.

We can exchange photos.

Double-Album Whippet Fantasia

I have feather hands. I caught the tools you threw. I have damaged muscle juice.

I call blood muscle juice. You act on malicious impulses. My weakness in my hands is fully crippling.

You win all fights. You work in the world with ferocity that blinds me. There is a heat in me that never subsides.

Goofy Faux-Symphonics

I have a friend who brags about his or her sexual kinks. He or she finds his or her vainglory to be greatly inflated when speaking about the spankings of his or her buttocks with orange paddles. His or her pulse audibly quickens when conversing casually about the eroticism inherent in the wearing of gauze upon his or her head. And sometimes I eat venison with my friend until the pleasure center of his or her brain is stimulated to the point of glossolalia, at which time I whisper the entire Book of Exodus into his or her ear. This is the only kink in which I participate; it is mostly a good reason to memorize a book of the Old Testament and eat a buck.