Clear ice, fresh lime, and perfume, toxic.
Makes me sick and throw up all solids.

Squeaking, fluffy, and small, kitten.
Mika’s playing around with something in his mittens.

Moulding, putrid, and aged, perfecta.
I got me a vomit full of feta.

Spiralling, linear, and artistic, unique.
My thumb-print is pretty fucking neat.

Constricted, yellow, and bent, hard.
My knob’s in a fucking banana-guard.

White, blinding, and confined overall.
My head feels like the inside of a ping-pong ball.

Colourful, stinking, and scattered, everywhere.
All this and nothing to wear.

Unmoving, ragged, and smells like outdoors.
Why’s there a fucking dead squirrel on the floor?