after Plath
 

Yoyo unto dodo, unto dodo
or hyenas, mockable
vehicle of wit like an avid hi-ho
to inherit prosy worry, fathead,
or betray a granite bachelorhood. 

Hi, dad. You love a lad, thy kid.
I budded a yeti heifer, moo—
a hovel, a gadfly, a bumble-frog
whose tangy toy thugs retaliate
as I cross, fleabag I,

and hitchhike an altered fantasia 
below the overrun aubergine peers
of Annual Beef Statue’s white fruit.  
You overate, or poetry is cud.
(Ha, cud.)

I’m the reggaeton nun, the piston in “Howl”
felt by all the rap records.
Warsaw’s farrows.
Townhome theft. Combustion. Amen!
Any pickled form

as rat heresy, rodent wazoo. 
I could even reset your whole,
pour out your forty, too.
Look out, Da, clever unity,
you jug-thwack sentiment, 

Wankers’ Brainiac Tributes,
chichi, chichi.
I proudly lack heads.
Ugh, way heteronormative, guys.
Be a gag; don’t annul cheese.

Gee, an inn! Gee, an inn!
Jacking off, I muffle whee,
a subject to which unwed azaleas
awake, jotting likeable
banality: hem, jewel, kiwi.

Even if the real can bore, honesty flows hotter
on your true pervert ear
than my wry wisecracks, misguidedly spent.
Mark and copycat, mark and copycat,
I oft jibe, “Beam away.”

Vocabulary is a honey few see, da,
hefty, fruitful, looby goober guy. Wow, da,
such a meaty neutron, da,
hungry yet bearable irony, da, 
Amazon, Amazon, purer penny—

towing a boast at dusk 
to quaky boondocks gull husks reach.
Yes, a fraction moves seaward,
to the beach, to the brief tune
of a YouTube liker, true breath. 

You hunky old abstract deadbeat dad,
I put you in the foe archive,
your canine flitch, outdoor safety info,
tooth-snarl font. Novel ideas, but
how bleakly the man scans,

how bitter, my tidy re-pattern. 
I went where uneasy youth bid. 
I tended to a witty rite, 
a gab knack, cocky beta doubt.
I bludgeoned the hotshot, unwove

my meted fluke output, base cloth,
until that get-go why resketched me,
when I had to know that end,
moody female audio,
a final blank poem with a comma kink,

however naked the scandal factor.
Da is oidioid, and
da is roughly half tin, my odd
book of a father. Thence lets the plot.
Jivest touches, warm corn thought,

a violent old film we liked: Evil Nike.
Improve what houses hide away
and be a randomly forky road,
even an essay. Know your tofu wit.
Da, can you be a kiddy clown?

Are you thick as steel tanbark, father?
Are you thin silk, red valve, legend?
Are you agency and spit and nothing?
I analyse thy sweat. Wow, yuk!
Try this, dada. Hug my buddy odor, dada.