Saturday, October 13, 2007


Gourd full of black swampmud
trail of filth back to
the guardrailed night
Nazi concentration camp of filth

Church on fireworks, fireworlds
Roid Prince
angular rays, an entire carwash of filth

Impresario Dawson
On a chain, a wet stone

arpeggiated at the end
Glory Highway

the final mile was on a pole of light
the rollerskates trailed out
candy tape

which the children, instead of chewing
actually sang at as they ate


Reparte, I’ll get you blind
on my rib-eye

If you don’t got it you need it

Bread on your rib-eye
Staticked you out, girl

I’ve got the thank the

It feels so good to meat
I’d like to thank Sir Rib-Eye

Regard daughter, but I dreamt of
the son, Cashwad