12325 – Abhinav Shankar

April 11, 2025

Shower booze; here’s to cooze.

Forage’s surrender,
and always coloured me
wrong.

We were a banister!
We!

Scrapes weren’t abound as
those eighteen-cent breadloaves
unto the clay mitts
we always wetly-dreamt
of
subsisting on.1

Little grey pony
has had it with
my
shitty shit.

Encroached on a world
who flicked me
tax incentives.

Blithey soups’d like to
have a word, or words,
with my glisten that is
ugly so.

And don’t you speed down the
halls.

My remains and our remainder.11

Sticklers don’t bleed,
but I know for certain
he stickles still.

There comes a time
when all us creasedcaps
blow a beam.

Took him down to the shops:

“Here’s a man who
walked so hardy
his faces told him
‘stop it’, and
eventually they got
booked
for
assault.
Aggravated!

“The marks right here,
look!
What a whack,
a vicious over!

“Though he delivers thanks.111

Plastic baby dons
the despondent lilac-brazen
hillside,
because we walk without song.

Spiked adhesive’s need.

That homo
Martian
used to be my dearest friend. Then he flew off
to planet (naturally) Mars.

WHY?
WHY??
WHY WOULD YOU FLY TO MARS??? WHAT’D YOU DO THAT FOR???
WHY???

That old
mason
who liked to graze.

WHAT’D YOU DO THAT FOR???

Spiked adhesive
needs me.1111

Sink.

Sharp napkin’s blessings upon all of you
good-for-nothing rags-to-riches
scum-of-the-earth success-story vermin.

The brand new:

– Bloom which I’m
– More of those flutes
– Course: we.

Mhitherspoon, to their fountains ‘Silvershit’, could.
Know anyone down at six-seventeen-and-a-half?
There prowls some young Latino—
likes to
save people.

He’s got a cleft everything. Don’t look. That’s what’s preached. Never look at anything, not for anyone, not even yourself, mostly Him.

Wiggling, spinning, doing a dance! All gone to seed.

I’s baked cooks on my swimming joggers’s monthly weekless. Weak-ness.11111