Stimbug at the Middle School Dance
by Jared Ijams
Its livery’s scuba glistered,
sloughed in stigmatic prance & wallowing skintight.
A self-spat bleat bumps flushing,
sweathaze rinses its canker sores.
The bog’s revived as bodied stagnate—
Stimbug yawns griefed at the dreadborn baptism of a fauxfilled flightline
& worships the humid crowns of alcoholic fen-dwellers: it drinks
a glass of hot water on an empty stomach.
in a son’s bucking snare rush,
a butcher’s lumbering war,
Stimbug trembles a hopeful succession
a wise inch
Teenage dream of totality delta’d between
a shorn circuit
rent futured: Stimbug is
by the soda machine at the 7-Eleven.
Crushed lustripped before
motormale flings clicking
a hundred jowls,
slouchfumed braingroping & breachloaded.
A release which clings,
jared ijams is the name of a congregation from california chaparral which doesn’t believe in triangles. their theodicy is wretched & their eschatology is indeterminate. they hope you enjoy.