Don't Ask for Anything, You Cock-Blockers

Practicing hand-to-hand handstands
won't fill your moat with bubbles made of soap
it's a straining neck, a trope made of the stretched-thin parchment of goats


Practicing hand-to-hand brass band
no escape to floral print hand cramps
a bocce ball, a drunken limp and a hand stamp


the fetal pig feels prigs picking at him
curling hooves like miniature rockers
curving scimitars molded to the bottoms of ice skates


the crowded platform rife with snot drippers and gawkers
it's always so much better than eating from wilting paper plates
feels like there's no escape from the crumpled and 


discolored girls size eight roller skates
we keep finding things have turned quite awkward
white-out impasto adding relief to your crossword


practicing acting like a blind man trying to drive the car straight
lacking a placard with an active graphic excusing my head's sorry state
regard folded into a guilt locker, sunken on a string to the bottom


practicing hand-to-hand sine waves
the wheels become fluid, roll crooked and gyrate
showered in disco lights, disco naps, handcuffs, hand claps, and tough breaks


feeling the impending ending of something
perhaps just the petering out of a growth spurt
a skidding to a drunken halt at the end of an awkward phase


don't ask me for anything, you cock-blockers
once I've reached this point it becomes, at best, simply not-so-great
with your nipple dimples, knee britches and deer stalkers
you're begging for the Knuckle Sandwich Express to the substrate