My Content
K. Silem Mohammad

My Content

 --for David Bromige
Dressage of claims:
His suit, hirsute.

  When Madison roars
at Monticello,
my content will suspirate
the marge of platens weirdly dangled,
  last seen bringing
  a dope theme to gigabytes.

The Twentieth Century in Retrospective:
  art is submerged,
  from up here we can see
a vast crinkling on the frayed edges
of something fixing its own supper.
The brand-name ice field,
a slattern. It is mauled.

Man and his cousins are skinned,
a mook senate divided over Rorschachs:
  the set toward basal-cell quality time
in the salt flat recuperations,
  polluting the toad cradle.

A lackadaisical twin harvest
sorbet-tinted personal stationery was
  certainly domineering,
but didn't go and collaborate
with the butt-monkeys on cropping
prole dividends—
what a mean drama
  teacher can do with an outlaw porn spike.

  The headdress is a shapeshifter,
it 1) sets and 2) gargles.
United in royal trunk
artistry, precipitated through cessation to stay flat.

  Size of a Mayan mummy! 		[plink]

 Now you can pry beneath
the dentine, elevate

the brogue thesaurus. The rose is off
the leiderhosen, The Frighteners
on 					DVD. 
Hershey's chocolate
kisses for

	 Irish mothers. Triceps
  separate; get psychic
and buy a beak!

The radon says "practically,"
sliding its tongue along the braid of a dandy.

You might
stay friendly
with tonight's next
victim as he is projected
onto a brightly
lit seascape.

The ought-six,
  rotated on a plain dreidl,
  the rectangles applauded
  o' the nacreous nest.
  Scriptor begone!

  But don't send any maggots my way.

The broadband threepenny
  saddling a redwing asp.
  Buoys obey yon men.

  Shuttle bait is on the way.
  Milady, truelove, and
  fine things by the way.

Rock softly then,
Omar you thief:

process is sleazy.