Zach Buscher – New Under The Sun

Zach Buscher

New Under The Sun

I. Ingestion How much tomfoolery drawn from why not?  Take this party. Take anal shots, for instance: asses set westward as Jell-O mold suns, in a cut lip round of spin-the-bottle. One name tag winks, HELLO MY NAME IS DOMINIQUE DE SADE, or something super shady. Something like foreshadowing. Tonight I won’t make a game of it, as Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk merely nods to Stevie Nicks’ bottom feeding, side effect of septum turned whole(y) tennis shoe.  I feel shallow for her jewel case allying improbable breasts: my favorite spot to toot these lines. II. Excretion Why not? I sidled up a pony, & Faith saddled the spout like a stallion.  Perhaps penis envy, since dropping her pants she showed rival balls, for which I would have swapped my swinging rook.  Still she moves first bowel & shits in the unsuspecting sink. She leaves me whites then — infestation chatters as if man micturating in peace, free from these diarrheic disturbances assumes a party without anal chugs by way of beer lack.  So wherefore keg stands?

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