The Sophomoric Pancreas

You operatic yellowboated steam sayer,
you yellow trunk of flip flop dudness,
you flip florp flud organ;
you bassoon of the inner-verse.
You are my desert porpoise,
my gentle rosered gumble plowry,
my stone-played earth.
In gentle waves I rest,
and will bleat the body cavity
until my sophomoric pancreas
reaches my throat and talks fluid.
In firm roast I walk,
and will false start
again and again
until I can do nothing but
usher in a new era of salt.
In rest I wrest,
and will disown the middle years
to better remember the start,
to yuk the stings and the criks.

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