Not every cloud is a pun to be unmasked
over the heads of unreliable witnesses.
Tell it to the sweetheart, judge. We're talking
weird of my couch's intransigence—
its question bedevils the hottest verb action
for whose sake one takes a walk
blind eyes shed fingerprints on.
Reduced to a skeleton mutiny, let's creep
out the wind no end, reading roughshod
all the way to the riverbank; let's defend
our pain from prick militias—
our bunker of saviors is kinda funny,
is indeed what makes the bomb so horny.
Forget money: I house my identity in my kiss,
asleep in the right direction, though I know
my freedom to see so makes me a meat
mistake, crying into my smile's hand.