Mademoiselle and her Madams

A Poem by Soil Creep

Insofaras
he can count his insignificants and
clutch his grey pupils,
I can match his strikes.
fire his liquid gels into buildings of canon,
   but he is not expected to
nor too.
He slicks in lingering possessives smelling happenstance,
and the tornachs swirling his-
   Monopoly house of france and her Bolsheviks.
  but he is expected to clear trunks of successives
with smacks of yellow and brown-
he thinks he is hotter than the tundra juggling canned bowels bawling.
I think he needs to reassess the craft in trading arms
-One for three and two are mine and five more for her-
he sickens me.
outwards as much as I can stone him
he throws marble along the skyscrapers;
oh, but my successorship
oh, how I want my successorship
        to be
as salty.