trapped in a blizzard
of mink-clad
nymphs
drowsy with donor
fatigue
in the land of
edward
scissorhands
where the
infomercial is king
as instinctive as a
vine
in the blue marble
organism
which doesn’t allow
the other—
the sea or the shore?
“this is me,” says
she,
saying ‘good-bye’
and the door
becomes murky
and I’ve seen this
murk before
is anyone asking
questions
anymore?
while in
this détente
you give me a
“pre-emptive strike”
so how are we
supposed to be
a six-legged couple?
right now, I’m going
to go
into town and rape
some
grand pianos
intention is one
thing
effect is another
but nobody’s name
goes on
the small of my
back!
Anonymous Sarcophagus 