Who moved, a fine fraction, snared dicks glittering,
Eating an order of myself supplied by some blood-red shape shifters, 
When a birthday cake is preceded by a holler, hey y’all, hey, 
This sea-green grind vibrates, a unit, exploding in shimmers; 

I myself shaking a bit, hearing over yonder, hearing down here
A sky round-headed and bloody, thick eyelashes whole-hog,
Grinding forever on the floor, hips into linoleum, 
Well, I think, I think homeward as I want and I lean! 

Islands of wheat-gluten, islands of gelatinous mass,
I’ve opened my peepers to you, you open as you are:
—Is it here in a bottomless appetizer that you snooze and remove, 
You, bright flock, o you ornery cuss, close enough to bloom?—