Whiskered, lithe, the guinea pigs
(not! You fruitcake. Look at them:
two stub-foot stockings
stuffed with phlegm. With teeth.)
rotund, decipher hieroglyphs
in hay (yeah, right. They're thinking
"Sun is up. Now yesterday's today.")
regard the bars ascetic (like
they have a choice) divide
the room in columns (next you'll be
ascribing quantum sums to bran-flake
cerebellums), sniff their bums
(if they could reach) and shuffle in a ring
till day is done, before they dream
of (gape clawed dragons raging on the wing
to rake a throng in smoke, devouring
the foaming horse) cucumber stubs,
perhaps, you loon. They're slugs
with pointy feet, God love 'em.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 23