Subculicious

Certainly the treads are smearing
My vision, all the smoky tendrils
Of what used to be fingers, looks like,
Serious mustachioed winks and brooms
Of a school house bong song sing
Over a skull shaped hole, the haloed
Sphincter. One muscle, two muscle,
Puppies in the soup: get your organs
Mashed by a superhero spud engine,
Or very nearly called back to duty
For a shot at taking shrapnel. Such
Curious motes of oak-a-ly diesel. Fumes
Cantankerous to dream or a fist.