As-Is Fizz

Welcome to my norm. Why not overcast

your way into my diamanté heart,

its six dits strings unplucked for evermore 

as shingling barracudas dance requisite 

sprigs you shoulder what you should be shucking

to the tip-tone forecast Belfast-prone

in a heap like Peepiceek. Altoona 

cannot blanche gray rails we rail alongside 

prep-kept prompts leaking from rental trombones.

Who would want to sleep with you,

you minivan of croak points framed in dappled 

blue. This foster weather won’t come true.

The lily bellied off-chance decibels cream 

the nearest mercy, tactical as plant face 

proxy in proximity to wield wards full 

of tintype mesh precluding realtor 

Rosie Derryberry from offloading 

palatial mansions nicknamed homes near here.