I am Fat, Frustrated and Cannot Write a PoemSandra Simonds
Hippopotamus, platypus, fungus, Queen Victoria with her lavender spiked dog collar frustrated with the boredom of beach life and leashes contaminating the entire coastal regions of China (if this was China) with her spray on bronzer pounding and pounding down the sandcastles of children with her nylon fists like a child screaming bang bang bam, you’re dead mommy! (as if someone would open the door (to China)) she believes in the existence of one Zombie Fred and the portrait of the artist as a young man, though, she would never have gone to the fair in the first place because tanning is addictive and she wants to see the folks she digs a pony-shaped castle. Calm thyself, California with your overhead compartment of ocean water, black box, air strips, skiffs the color of Sun In inside pills the consistency of trans fat Skippy peanut butter like a crooner or a crock the high rollers, a phage spreading sand on a Petri dish, infinitely gross and spreading and as for the clean up crew, in their orange jumpsuits swift and suave pitchforks to tetanus’s lockjaw song no elbow room inside the last heavenly body ever to record Geronimo, the tomb of the unknown solider and how I wanted to tell you that this poem eats strawberry ice cream by the gallon and doesn’t stop to burp.
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