This Shit I Wrote This Shit

...wrote these I Wrote 'Em. Creative ly

Wrinklefuck the puppydog

Overgrown into normalcy, the yard hoists
string-cheese long-grass around
wrinklefuck the dog

If seen, which he isn't, they would find, which they won't,
green-grey breaths of mold lodged between snaggletoothed pant,
spilling from running mouth slobber
onto the old dirt filled with keys and metal and syringes.

Two inches of fur loosely stitched
	with skin fly past the gnat gaggle and roll into a bush
Two inches of grime loosely prodded
	with beady puppy eyes wander elderly back out.
Bongwater-mine toiling gilds beholding mind's boiling
to think of such a shivering, stumbling wretch made to live here,
on this telephone-pole planet.

Acid-kid (the kid that makes acid) says that its parents
were siblings, and theirs, and theirs, and theirs,
and theirs - eternal tumble-down mutation and accident,
false step and consequent genetic churning, silent
gethsemane stars and doggys
nuzzling each other
in that locked barn, hidden in the
midnight hay.

He scrambles atop the foot-tall plastic slide and yawns,
maw spreading stretching little tongue, legs folding,
body shaking. Circling, circling.
Laying.

Flies shutter and twirl 'round as I kneel beside him
look into his cloudy eyes and ask if he chooses this life.
Ancident lids only crust together
and he whistle-breathes slow.

I ask him again:
Do you choose this?

As wrinklefuck naps the Thursday afternoon away,
the sunlight pours through his inbred skin,
and his vile body kicks with love in its sleep.