uh, yeah

With a smile on her face,
the last breath dances
through the trick pony's sad eyes,
and washes the sun-dried
glass dusted batch
of pickled pigs feet
down to a gelatin shine,
upside down and twinkling.

Watch the teeth, directs the radio
that wobbles instead of vibrating,

wriggling like a rubber sword run
through sound-checked premises.

These sharpened spectators
celebrate a christmas
that dissolves sweet on the tongue,
much like something seen
on an old fading television
in the middle of the night,
of men weightlifting, forever and ever.