Scrambled Sunday Slam-dance

by Bob Johnson

caught a flathead catfish with
a seventies porn-star mustache
he winked at me when I opened his belly

in his guts
I found a used yellow condom
and a diamond engagement ring

took a quick shower to be holy
but laid down in the tub and fell asleep
nearly drowned
was late for redemption

magic promises of the two-headed preacher
rattle my ears
but not my soul
perhaps I am irredeemable in the state

flesh-crazed Sunday canines tear
barbeque-basted corpses
in between witty lies and hatred

oriental chairs
red with gold paisley
they remind me of grandma
she use to chew tobacco and smoke cigarettes
I miss her laughter

dolls speak in scramble Scrabble tiles
smiling feline masque exhales a foreign-tongued

forget to let my happy beast outside
my dreams will be littered with worry
and feces on the beige carpet

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