Twenty-two or twenty-three I’m whippin in the kitchen
Eggs crackin’ forsaken they’re headed to their grave.
My stomach. Once I drew a stomach with come crayons
It’s the tummy that feels queasy if you eat and then go swimming.
Food just hops into the darkness like an undercover whirlpool unbeknowing
What befalls it or does it actually know, maybe the brain it has is yellow.
What a fellow am I to be eating all these withered lemons. Slither
Like a snake and then they give you all the minimal
Nutrients of a rock. Rock flying through a window unbroken
No signs of slowin’. I, invent new dishes whether or not it’s snowing.