Let others munch spare froglegs and things
Or their mother's tidbits so fine
I prefer wee bumblebee wings
With a pipe of blueberry wine
I've no desire for porcupine stew
Aunts coated in chocolate yea thick
A la flayed caribou
Or some other chef's table trick
A simple table whenever I dine
Not mine all these modern cuisines
I'm quite satisfied with blueberry wine
And old fashioned bumblebee wings
Name on the door says REALITY CONSULTANT.
My job is SMITH.
I test coffee-laced watercolors on the desiccated.
It's not a pretty painting.
Everyone claims frame.
My next assignment's those new 18 hr Wonder bras.
What do they do the other 6 hrs?
Makes me wet, wondering.
It's the early 21st Century
Do you know where your God is?
Such cunning these beasts
By pruning heaven
They've stilled the old wild yeasts
Yet in breeding unleavened
Seed such sheetings of grief
Shat out uneven
O'er poor human paste
That all dogs believing
Rise lonely and weak
These acids know weakness
No mercy for grief
Or inherent meekness
These semen stained sheets
Keeps meat on its knees
And power unaided
Or tree on the leaf
And tragic the shaman
Yon black crow hunched against
The yellow asphalt line somewhere
On route 36 interstate north
Is but a breath of my fancy
An inevitable pigment of my integration
One final fiction
Old crow's dead
Motherless mind sewage
Black cold magpie
Could be raven
Platinum yellow ozling
Mother Mary mud pie
Young mudded girl
Inflected in random pools
Of rainbow auto oil
On yellow lined highways
The dead black crow
Hunched against 36
As has been said
The night weighs upon the city
In tired, fat insolence. Rat scurry.
Old papers flap down empty streets.
It is an ugly season. Full.
Day slouches in, in shameless anonymity
Devoid of great chained excuses of being
A voided has been of god, notion and country.
Unfocused without, we hunt worms within
To bait further cold excretion of reason, rationale.
Refuse refusing our naked nothing.
Strip steal by night.