Don't Ask Me

mindless Frankenstein, single-minded, and her voracious, faithful dog with a seventy-foot tail, lifting carpets, sliding sofas, slurping everything in sight, with a bottomless pit for an appetite, metal, insects, dead mice, coins, fingernail clippings, fleas, spider brains - It gurgles and wretches over paper scraps from childish sketches, embarrassing for a howling dog, who wears his name, Hoover, in a stamp on his bulging side, a reverse Pandora's box of a canine, pop him and you see all your old friends again, dreams long dead, come alive, but he's roaring like a dragon in a Godzilla audition, and he's got you in his crosshairs, with a Duranteater snout, as Ms. Frankenstein squints, looking for hints, turning every stone, so, you gotta keep movin. she's got murder in her eye. she won't bake you in pie. you won't even die. she's gonna put you in oblivion. every bit of dirt is gone. only, you, the dirt king, emperor of disgust, crown prince of crud, evade her tenacity. finally, sleeping soundly on a chair's bottom side, as she falls with a thud, and Fido hides in the corner, moaning.