"Formulaic Distractions of the Common Moron"

Fly my inverted perversion – no is reversing the flaky pancakes that we eat every morning.

Mourn the loss of my car keys but don’t flop down on the couch.

My life is found in between the seat cushions which push and peddle my illusive thoughts.

Apostrophe marks make parking brakes break my arm and flick my wrist because I’m twisted.

Should I yell at you on some number pad with cancer giving X-rays and microwaves to save a few bucks on safety charges and telephone poles pull at me because it’s positively charged.

You crave eyes with straight lines that strafe strides that take side and other crazy, crazy commodities in spite of all the truth we accept we lie to stave sighs.

Depression depresses bed sheets as I spread sheets because I’m tired of spread sheets and I’m tired.