we take turns / taking pains
on the days we stomach together. / you’re in
prime / puking condition
after a bloody-nippled marathon.
idols are made / in amniotic fluid, clay
and tough mudder usa.
if you don’t / bug out
when a squirming shrimp
wriggles into the superhero’s umbilicus,
you can withstand my public speaking
on why babies are parasites.
under the covers, I grew up / praying
the late night news wouldn’t find me
with their nightly bedbug / eating quota.
you hide from me / your pillbox
of an innie / and I’m already
the depression of a good fender
bender. what a rotten dream / I had
a dreamsicle. with you / I’d like to be
coppertops / or unicorned,
traffic cones on our heads
to spar / in a tunnel. like a czech lingerie model,
you want your navel / surgically removed.
those cylindrical orange ones are
going for 80 to 122 each / once I looked
up the nightmarish price
of a highway barrel. it was going
to be your present. the belly button
gets airbrushed / on
the idol / in post. real body / horror.