Clogged

Fronds, waiving cool air. I’m injected with praise. But your fingers push the button anyway. Noodlingly.
Small town social attire on a chimney nailed, queasy and prepared to assume your derision. Empty oak branches raise fingers to the heavens. Me and you imploring.
Decade’s decadent befuddlement I explode dreams made of acorn shells war with the upstairs squirrel, he climbs into the roof and roots into my dreams.
I apparel the scratching darkness with fingers of the dead. Zombie clone distemper and an aching in the toe.
I am all, in front of the TV, made of movies, of film scripts and detriment.
Embattled tide and sand clogging the pipe ways. In the drain near the window, I saw your pleading sponge. The dampness on your tightrope untickling us to fever. Chores and vestibules. Both are adequate hiding places when the dipping hand gets cheesy. Night, night, it’s crawling along the tree branch. The legs are wiry coming and leaving. I’m so afraid.