In the Bowels of a Rust

Churn the damn scam

that awaits its moment

to rear its truth

Like smoking weeds

green, brown, sticky

laying prostrate

telling secrets to onlookers

who marvel and record

defecated prayers

Wishes are all You have

Verbiage reins supreme

Smoke smells

before ideas flow

Yet, who will fail to flush

after You wipe

Then so, who won’t?

How much length do You need

to pull out the real You

Maybe hip-flex colors matter

when I reach for the air