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a forlorn fever break, an illness trapped in stretch wrap, a mangled fart box, looking for a Shania Twain radio station; the creation of crater-sized canker sores, “Portrait of a Doctor,” by Francis Picabia (c. 1935); broken axles, putting friends to rest, readjustments and realignments, steaming tomato soup (in bed), no dumping, a leaking dashpot;

alligators and wading birds, frogs on top of turtles, please eat my young, force feed me b12 pills, treat me for sucking blisters, take me away from my own life and prove me nostalgic;

a year full of change, clipping in-grown nails, masking undying lust, those relived memories of unfaithful touch; dead husband jokes where no one laughs, “this hit tasted like copper, is that supposed to happen;” taking off your ally backpack pins because you’re nothin’ but a dissembler;

“do u need help looking for something” “yeah do y’all have any of those rectal use thermometers anywhere” “yeah, over there by the As Seen on TV stuff” “okay cool, thanks boss”

meditation as medication for a ceremonial burial, heads or tails? flip k –– eat the cream and save the cookie, that’s right, we’re talking double stuffed and pulled apart, all of these sensations leading back to trace decay theory; little cat, that I found in a parking lot, your body was still frozen when I put you by the tree; days before after I put you down I left you in my freezer for months, my friends kept telling me to bury you, and now i’m out near a secluded field and your soft fur remains unchanged, still as silky as when i found you, and now i have to say goodbye, after petting your eyeless head with latex gloves;

the one guy on the opposing football team that didn’t get the memo about letting the subbed-in retarded kid score the game winning touchdown for the homecoming team, he’s already mid-sprint running towards the poor kid and nobody can stop him;

headline SERIAL KILLER SHOPPING IN THE MOLTON GROCERY AND MARKET; staring at the pumpkins on your shirt hidden under flannel tightly buttoned, I cut open those orange gourds and took out their seeds, then I seasoned them on a sheet tray covered in oil and baked them at 350F;

my ibuprofen pills are stuck together, this means more cortisol, more lactic acid, pressure builds on itself, this is so trout fishing in america;

karate chopping a thin stream of water gushing from a spicket, running into the frontline and being speared through the knee, fighting through felonies for beliefs and maternal trust, finding a place of peace through surrender;

shinkei jime wire fed into spinal cord,

exhausting creatures of their blood,

i am mercy with a serrated tip;


Morgenrede drinks cheap beer and plays pinball in and around the American Midsouth. He has recently published a book of poetry entitled ABUSER with Pig Roast Publishing.

Morgenrede is on X/Twitter @metadegenerate

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