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The Baker, The Gentleman, The Weather Askew

Thistles tumble- a waiter's fife- lulling the food and customers into bed together.  Teeth
are at war and the waiter's got the contract.  It's raining.  It's ok that it's raining.  The
rain may go backwards, through roots and faucets, straight up, and then down- a cool sandwich.
The power of the broom, licking tiliment from the shoulder's of civilization, combing baldness,
so that it might grow ripe with hair- call it from the sky for long years and ssssSweep! and 
it will grow back.  Bristles spasm smoothly, both benign and electric, giving to the impact for
a moment in exchange for something else- a back spasm, appreciation for a fine massage.
The kettle is calling.
From the leafy mist a taste of moist metal spreads- bubonic blood- olive grease slithering up 
the leg of a white garment- bubbling briefly.  And then gone, seeping some previously 
undiscovered hovel.
Coming out of the wall, a spider, a cross between a cat and an iguana, presented in the dim 
light, half unwrapped and shaking.  The florescent lights flicker and then fade.  But there is 
the cook, knowing nothing but the buzzing tube, and liquid flame.
Grow greasy stone
sweat mineral fluid
Do it! Burn, and sweat
or else 
continue to
thicken
The room is spakling.  Its eyes winking animal shadows, pressed and ground into enemy shapes.  
The room is muffled.  It is the heat of burning paper that makes sound less necessary.
Beed toys sting the floor.
Yet, among the rubble 
of the walls of rock lay fun
pickled without abandon
by puckering dill mites
who mock the kettle
leaving spider-webs of 
frigid metal
tracks to mar and 
then crack
changing/denying the kettle's tone.
If the key for the floor were in the waiter's pocket, then his neck would sweat less and sinking 
stomachs so tiny would keep mushed pears from the ground.  Squinting creatures would say that 
they thought he stood not just upright, but carrot upright, complete with tiny green 
arms coming out of his head.  They would suggest that he don a bubble and plant himself in the 
ocean as he and corral would compliment each other's color nicely.  But the key is lost.
WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!  I'm LEAVING!!
I want to camping with a kitten and frighten it with ghost stories.