Suffer the little children in
their footie-jammies
to come unto the Easter Squirrel.
Take, eat, these are his
sweetbread-kebabs.
“This is what will happen to you
if you tell a soul,”
snarls Father Xavier.

Whose lower extremity's fixing to plunge
deep as the throat of old schizoform Pluto?
Whose shiny prosthesis unhymens this prairie,
obtruding on soil like a smooth hookah-tube
urged on a flippant girl, trying to get her to
do smoke as vulvas do semen?

My pet mammals' heads are suddenly thumbs.
Fingers have sprung from their sixteen limbs.

Jaw parasites, speech feeders, word thieves, they fasten! Antiparticulate drainers of the lower mandible! If lightning rods shit elementary bosons, these shiny cylinders ionize thought-flatus! Cathodes, catheters! Famished face fornicators! They fasten! They fasten! Haven't you an ear to listen?

"You? Who are you?"
Maybe I've narrowed it down to two.
Would Poet and Painter do?
Or just a couple death-wrestlers, pro.
I could swear it's as
though                         
Painter and Poet in tempera tights
and lexical testicle cup death-grapple here.