I have three cancers, two in my balls and one on the tip of my penis

Porn.

And cancer. Porn and cancer.
Smell of death and spermatozoa,
simultaneously.

I go jogging early in the morning,
in my imagination, with my pet shell of a crab
whose inner flesh i consumed late last night

with a shot of tequila.

The crabshell does give me a good run, I must say,
scuttling off into the lost horizon in its
bottom-fed ocean dwelling ways, lending me chase.

Those wiles of the crustacean, now I'm losing it ...
as you'll lose ... the flow ... smoothness of transition,
'tween the rainbow, as pollen grows, brachyura's

demented gonopores.

Under-dwelling sky oceans, star-feeding grounds.
Comets for dolphins, a meteor for hatchetfish.
Splish -- splash, around cloudy crowns of shimmer gas

ring-a-rose, those planets ...