And Old Pot Floating Outwards (stepping down) [and out]

here they go again
to judge me and my
star barf shoes and
aulfe body all

limping up doncy
with their human names
while i myself
am only the troll-phat toil
of grandmother matter
Citizen Laugherty of low laird,
Cute McSheyme;

shemmy punk in a pot boil,
but here they come (again),
glorifying the same ten fags (luckys!)
their eutrapelian times, acroamatic friends,
atwite oi writan as per scratchi, and /or elagauntii, etc..

and who blames them
i often call out to Saturn, the ansa,
and the balzama of Diana,
when a jaggery grasshopper
emerges carrying
a crystalline baby torch
from the corona
of my libidinal font

who blames them
for dragging their
penultimate knuckles

among the fires of data
its stupid wrath, beaux-esprits,
chillingswoth,
etc

in death I dance
and with a pink umbrella
make my song, en Via Recta

for a slave of dust
is musical if nothing else!



images by Folkert de Jong