I have a chicken dress for the codeine addressing me meagerly with the 2 straps I have for legs, a sense of face refacing the dress I wear & tear on Easter. Pester me less with your thickening phelgm. So god I cough for all the brethren Joseph installed on the walls of his psychedelic redress. I digress. I have a stall for all this waiting. A thick neck wedged between tearing ducts. My sinuses, Lord, for miles to go. My plunging lungs conducting yours. So who’s chicken is it, Lord, that flu the coop and splat/hack landed on all this lapping? Stack the things I do like Annette Bening into the squarest plaque. The formest truth. Roof of wire stuck with shit. No heart but my chicken, chicken heart. To market, to market, Pecker.