THE NEXT PERSON WHO SAYS CELTIC TO ME WILL LOSE A FINGER

I am fourteen
a small bird that wants to die
selects my head

this occurs at an art institute
where lots of curvy young women
overemote about inconsequential matters

Gene Hackman and Peter Lorre are the resident villains
America is the leading manufacturer
of violent thunderstorms and applause signs

my expertise concerning the whimsical nature of smoke
has so far gone unreported there is a blog
to that effect which you will not find on Google

the odd half-naked Japanese girl
draped provocatively over downward flowing marble stairs
I do think moving but not enough to linger

the dogs the lightning the chatter
what else can I say
I don’t have anyone decapitated

the typewriter does it
that’s how antiquated we are
as far as I can tell I am not yet worshipped

there are moist wipes
and Dove beauty body wash squeeze bottles
displayed in offbeat places

thank you for reading this far by the way
the dream continues for approximately 47 years
I hope you’re not just another speed reader

masquerading as part of the intelligentsia
I can only take so much D-League showboating
thousands of franchises etc.

I use big words because size matters
I don’t waste time ogling the tropical fish
I order something in black bean sauce efficiently

I used to think females are different
the protuberances were blocking my vision –
they continue to shave in strange places though!