Some days I just feel like an aging jewish mother;
Thinking, thinking,
about finding a nice young academic
to marry my poetry off to
before it gets too old
to klondike the rich and incandescent squalor
of its red and lacy lungs.
They are cows. We are pigs.
Who will wooley the swift
and darn the strange sockling?
Pierre Bismuth.
If only someone would make a fist of their head
to paper the bulb.
Let it be Rainbow Sun Francks.
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Irrony Observes The Earthing.