Clean

drones sweep the kitchen floor
wide awake to partake a stab at decoding
ceiling sheep

it can be seen their eyes are full of
pollen-bees
the type that dodge and run their mouths
when gliding newspaper wings through
south

replicated knife

endorsement, something
not many know of, nor would consider, as
if weather had a theoretical component, where
control

rooms weren’t just a son’s pet-peeve around mother’s attempt to love, but
actual neurological firings manifested into
compounds, basements
full of strange specimen, cover up
secret government projects, in the name of

war

or

in the name of protecting the planet from some distant danger, clouds
part and eyes weep
city streets fall on the cheeks of an actual human
lying in bed contemplating blade
cleaning

broom we can sweep the kitchen floor, and the refrigerator
needs a deep sneeze, nothing
fishy about absent drones in sheep-eyes bleeding nothing
strange about bees

missing their lungs, deprived of their locations, GPS
malfunction insecticide, inhales
of fructose in the spore-ordered air, easy
packets to insert
in a room full of absent static-electric, gas
isn’t smelled, there’s nothing

here in place of my fingers, the chair
wobbles, the desk
beneath has forgotten information on placement, where
stones were kept in the event of an emergency, mountains
holding breath, as the
last glimmer of a sheep’s eye crimson sunset

blinks bees from its pool-weeping sacrifice, the kitchen
floor, exonerates
crumb-populated legions, with
bristles of broom serration-hands to showcase everything is perfect in a
perfectly cleaned mirror, while

brushing my teeth

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2 thoughts on “Clean

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