The rancid smell, suggestions for the use of soap,
directions to the man, his head half a canteloupe.
Leaping, no plan, flipping on a flaming trampoline;
eyes glazed with all the ways he has ever seen.
"Don't be mean," he cried, now doing a slick trick.
Impaling flies on the side with a broken toothpick.

Wicked, aiming to stick it, a complex spin frontflip.
Hair bounces as he slips, the strands grease whips.
"What a trip," he says, landing on a broken spine.
"Like falling on thine twine... must be a strange sign."
I raise a brow, wondering what I should do now...
so I raise my head to the moon and moo like a cow.

"Plutonium!" He cries, and I have the feeling he lies...
he is having a seizure, I think at his leisure...uh. bye.
An angel who spreads his wings and flies to the sky...
I miss canteloupe head, breaking every rule, to defy.



DOPENESS.