As the moon’s hangs over the one hole potty
mama’s in the kitchen crossdressing biscuits
papa’s in the outhouse riding shotgun to his bladder
beaujesus in the turnip patch smelling mistletoe
with the preacher’s wife, caught in her hems
getting his rocks off in a rocking chair
with godsmack milk burning his appendicitis
chewing Little Debbie’s lady fingers
exhailing the bones of her cuticles
listening to cat on the hot tin roof
scratching at the single wide shack
carried away by the monsoon rains
This one’s got that wild, backwoods fever dream energy — gritty, surreal, and just a little unhinged in the best way.
Feels like a busted radio in the dark, spitting out heat, sin, and dust while the world quietly falls apart around it.
Thank you, Thomas.