The Insomniac in the Kitchen Matrimony of gray matter to a mast Electrocutes the home, white as a wasp.
Fries crisp the fat of our land.
Chimeras painting panoramas on the storm door, Ululating fractal plaids on the air's black screen, seams dreaming to be king. The insomniac in the kitchen, Evil reveals its briefcase in your nimbus, Three days now qualify as one. The witch trial at dusk, The accusation at dawn. Commencing to creep, the worm-coat Examines me for easy vacancy, my secret stash of apertures, While inward herds itch out, Towards the bureaus flaming yaw, Whose peeling bones of dangerous paint are cloned from my own. The elegy of yoga, I absurdly wring my limbs, On the floor, on the bed, on the lawn, on the insect highways.