How many blondes must die before the Danish

   thriller ends?

The sans serif are here with their removing gear.

Type! Darling, type!

My secretary responds, hoofishly.

Between the kernel and the fruit.

We cough.

The water stretches unto the sea – hand me my

   nosering!

Narrative logic asleep on a park bench.

The gardener is here for his paycheck; I think he

   is stealing our weeds.

The porridge stirrer knows more than it’s telling,

   too.

The llama are butting at the gate, enraged by the

   radio playlist.

Your vortices number three, I assay.

And they meet in the person of a Greek sailor.

The sailor publishes his diary.

Gay love isn’t funny any more.