oh fisherfarm diabolous. poem.

I’m sorry daddy. we ran out of milk.
my pile of clothes on the bathroom floor.
oh help me godly one
oh parse words and part lips
the lunar eclipse
for my man.

miles over the root beam
were the sandcreepers
and the road bird,
squashed under tire racks and
telling naughty sausage tricks,
to the fire pit holder.
the hamper banned by children on the lawn.

the law is watching
so salivate slower now,
the slowest spit to ever
roll down your chin.

oh fisherfarm diabolous.
aftercare is integral to your healing.

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