The itch of the race
I'm not in last place
At sixty-percent
Of the way there, no
Turning around I
See people barking
At me- Their heads grow
In size, but decrease
In quantity, no!
Their hands getting long
And creeping towards me
Oh, I hope they can
Scratch my itch- Cravings!
My itch, my itch, damn!
It has been a real
Treat to get it scratched
At by a local
Professional beast-
I took off my jeans
To the white doctor,
'Could you sing me songs'?
He proceeded to
Eat my rib-cage full
It tickled, the drool!
But then it itched hard
All I could feel was
An itch the size of
My pants, and I thought
'Does blood really taste
Better on Sundays'?
So I went to church
Visited marble
Statues of dark blue
And proceeded to
Jump on a nearby
Woman, shouting, loud
'Have a holy day'!
YOU ARE READING
Incoherent Poetry from the Depths
Terror(The painting in the cover is by painter Nicola Samori) Do y'ever just wish to feel the chills of the ethereal down your spine? Have you wondered what life is like outside your material universe? Did you ever posit the idea, that a good bout of uns...
