The chainsaw is brutally broken,
my nipple feels a file.
I masturbated just to give in,
to someone or something inside.
I smell like washed handles,
of some brittle log.
I curse this planet for soon enough,
there will be luncheons for God.
If love was easy you would have it,
if you are stoned you’ll be unwise.
Grab the kitchen at a vegetables phallus,
instead you wine and whine.
Now bake a car that shields a book,
two inches thick at a starve.
Break bread for tyres and wishes,
now drive for hours.