open-hearth policy

speculate on the nature of triumphant spitfires.
besmirch the good nature of the pekinese.
the ungodly persist in their ungodliness
and the nature of the ecological sanctity of
the small press remains in flux, but,
mercifully, intact.
i once stood outside an apartment window
and watched a cute red-haired boy
jerk off. he used corn oil to lubricate
his big shiny dick, and, when he came,
he sure spurted a heck of a lot of cum.
the lost, the sad, the lonely,
wander from place to place, person
to person,
hoping for a cessation of pain.
a flounder, lying on the bottom of the
sea, looks upward with both of its eyes,
eyes which are, in fact, sitting
on the top of its face.
the flounder is indeed a strange-looking fish, its
face twisted, kind of like
a figure in a picasso painting,
the waves splashing high overhead,
the sunlight a turgid beam
of radiant delight.
wonder whatever happened to that
good-looking red-haired boy who used
to jerk off in front of his window.
one day his apartment was simply
empty. he was gone,
and whoever moved in after him,
remains a big fat