I Have a Pull Chain in my Head

Here I am with all the space I care to handle and nothing to say. Writer's block! Perhaps I should do what the writers of the early 20th century did and drink a lot of bourbon. Neat. No ice. Or I could just pull the chain in my head and come up with...refrigerator poetry?!
Well, I do have a fridge covered in the stuff. Just your basic set of word magnets mixed with two people who have far too much time on their hands. So, having pulled the chain...here's a selection of 'Refrigerator Poetry'.

"I trudge through delicate eternity with sweaty feet."

-or perhaps-

"Rusted visions of goddess gardens
recalled the love of Bitter Cool."

-or even-

"Death drives fast in an enormous black car
with his milk white arm all easy out the window."

-and one I like a lot, though not really poetry-

"Egg wax the mother ship."

At the moment all of these are up, plus 8 or so others, made from a single set of word magnets. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh. Yeah, I probably should get out a little more, but it makes the neighbors nervous.