Cousin Geoff's poetry

Golden sausages under my feet, there is a squishy sound like spoish spoish. 
Ketchup bottles guilty and treading silently in the night
A teacup glares back with the defiance of an angry forgotten race or crab people...in my pants
Feathers and syringes and condoms sail through the air like a tornado of tears and love songs.

 Groping Clinton clones meander across the ballroom 
Lukewarm potato wine and redneck pastries glow with prepubescent tastiness, like your face
I am like the grand piano that crashes down on many innocent children, maybe 5 or 6 
You may say I am a dreamer of butterflies and ponies and breakfast meats
But I am filled to the brim with breakfast meats...
Filled to the brim...