Orange dusk
	Inhalable dust
		Camping aside a nasal passage
	Swollen eyes
		To see
			An indistinguishable event
		Arise
			To ashes
				The seventh color
					Is
				Your uninhibited instinct.

Oh my lady!
	Please use a spoon
		If it is stuck in the shell.
	You are not going to lick it out with your tongues,
	There are better things to do with your tongues anyway.
		But please allow me to show you,
		All you need is a small spoon.
Open the tiny slit with a gentle touch,
	Swirl the spoon on the tip until it is loose,
		Hold it close to your mouth like this,
			Now suck it all in, my dear!	

IT'S
Monday again, Oh, what am I to do, other than buying
another lottery ticket? Winning one, perhaps? Oh, my desk,
it doesn't even deserve me calling it 'my,' I am too weak
to admit my desk is utterly useless to me, except, well,
you know, except perhaps sometimes it comes handy when it
comes to two people, you know...but that doesn't solve my
lottery problem, because I am not going to sit here all
day thinking about it, or else, nothing will be accomplished,
like when you sit at your desk, you know, on 
							MONDAY.

Last night I caught a mackerel,
	And cooked it with a cockerel.
		It was delicious!
			It was deliriously delicious!
You know I don't cook,
	But that was something.
		All I did was to put it into the oven,
			Raw mackerel,
				Live cockerel,
					It is all natural.
What happened?	Nothing but time, nothing but time.

A man walks out for lunch,
	Sees no one in the street,
		And's got a bad hunch.
There is a whole bunch
Of restaurants that one can munch
Inside without getting crunched.
	Isn't this his dream?	What is he waiting for?
He walks around and then scrunch
Outside a restaurant whose brunch
Is served with fruit-punch.
It takes a man's true courage to be the first for lunch.

	What a bouncy gut!
	So smooth and rough.
	Smack those eyes,
		Grind those ears,
			Twist those hearts,
	Stomach in the main,
		Bladder on the side,
	Mouth is trapped,
		Mind is off,
		Stuff them all and,
	It will be ready for the mall.

My hands start to hurt when typing this poem.

My hand starts to hurt while typing this sentence.

My hurt starts to hover whilst tying this poem

	Together.
	
I should have known,

My hhands startsto hhurt whe typping thsi pem.

Through an indiscreet mirror,
	Sees an indirect image,
		Floating besides your neck,
			You peek through,
		And sees an indirect mirror,
			Reflecting an indiscreet image,
				Floating around your neck,
			And you are peeked,
		Through an mirror indirectly from an image,
		Floating beneath you.
Oh - Don't turn back!    Magic only goes forward!

It is ten minutes before boarding,
	All passengers are stuck at the first inning,
		What for? You asked.
			Hoarding.
It is five minutes before boarding,
	No passengers are still standing.
		How come? You asked.
			Crash Landing.
It is one second after boarding
	Into the streets with warning:
		Never piss a pedestrian in the early morning!

4am PST
It is heartwarming to know
	t
	 h
	  a
	   t
	    Even Mona Lisa changes her stockings
			once
			    in
			      a
			       while.