I’m a seashell, washed up on a distant shore.
I’m a pony standing beside the road.
I’m lighting striking a church-bell tower.
I’m a ladder leaning up against the wall.
I’m the last tree standing in a burning forest.
I’m a feather falling from the dusky sky.
I’m an empty bowl in a beggar’s hands.
I’m chicken soup in the middle of the street.
I’m the smaller half of a wishbone.
I’m a drop of rain on a sunny day.
I’m the moon behind an angry cloud.
I’m the 13th hole in a dozen donuts.
I’m a postage stamp on an unsent letter.
I’m an odd sock in the bottom drawer.
I’m wallpaper peeling off the walls.
I’m a hamper full of dirty clothes.
I’m a bag of tricks.
I’m full of shit.
But most of all, I’m horny.
laughing stock
in the slaughterhouse . . .
bull market
