Jerk Some Muscle Until It's Corn

All the moon does is sit in the sky and change shapes with tricks
of shadows while all we do is do and die.
These nightly escapades, lancing the sky
in order to drive a bargain, spit some shine
and jerk the muscle until it's corn.

In here, in a stall - a shower head sparking blue on my sugary self -
the beam of water feels good on the head of my class.
A buttery edge, a sweet gem and the goodness of triumph and fear.
I mean, what memory matters when there is no space for this?
It seems so real to be alive now days and so: things are sharp or break.

If what you do in your free time is sink into the organ of relief
then you should know what smothers the crane is the highly toxic
mechanism of fish fog and chum. Wave at them passing by
over a bed someone is waving goodbye goodbye.
There are no stormy lessons of the migrating beat.

I'll hook to the spoon and cringe in a metal film about all of you.
The savage comes clean to boot up a signal
in my strange machine: aloud. These broad moths
are what separates the pearls from the meat.
You remember the miracle now spit in your hand.