time is the slimy unguent
of thought

my mother vomits Nabokovian verbs
in bright primary colours

the arts & letters are laid bare
on shelves

(true art is the ability to not
but distort colorectally

flanked by crazed messiahs in rags
on all sides  begging for some sin

a woman observes me lasciviously
from a white panel van

behold the man  o pleas enjoin his wail
a truculent recrudescence tantamount to riparian wit

the man is a battery of pain
walking the perfumed rows he discharges it  and meanwhile

my eyes are the framed mirrors of want
I sit in the Sanguinarium and

wait  & soon come yelloworange dreams to me
a bale of hay neatly tied on the back of a blue pickup truck

the same red coffeecan honda turns the corner
over and over and over and over and over and o—