I’ll call you Thug Jug. I’m Whatever. Stud’s

go thud. “I’m doubtful/ that you’ll get this, Thug

Jug” – Ugh. Like cricks in my flesh; those, “fluids

foam,” at your thoughts. Moist. Oozy. Eel & Slug

call me, “Ken.” I call them, “Eel & Slug.” Slew

caked banks shall slip their levee. Soon flood hell

waters will. “Make this about Fate,” you coo.

I do. Cocksure crevices. That rank shell

flange. Dope B-Grrl style. Barf me out. Gag me

with a spoon burned to steam crowded with holes.

Such are my moots. Sis Slug bytes. The moon bit

our brain. Soul’s fictile skull. Eel’s grace. Oozy

on the eyes. You won’t find me, by the doe’s

toes, hue and gasp, on all fours: sniffing up git.