Friday, April 21, 2017


 i live in a flood of whigs
 or salutes, gleets,
 whatever they are
 there seem to be more talking actors
 than are absolutely necessary

 the production of value
 has its limits

 to the glomerous befelling
 and for those hugging fast
 to their condemned pagodas
 we offer our somber ketchup
 our deeply paradoxical stories
 and our grotesque ends
 as projected vicariously
 along the scarfin'-surfari
 of our anti-catoptromancy

 i see azure ashes
 in the empty limbs
 and keep facile cormorants
 in snaky lanterns
 i weave primitive duck heads
 from the growls of dog innocent

 i live
 in the subgenius moment

 where first order logic G
 is such that an economy V
 wills its own undoing in success
 Y (think dancing too hard)

 some used to call it decadence
 meaning stupidity not vice
 while others call anything
 everything and who cares
 really then

 cuddly cuddly Guinevere
 went out the shower grove
 and there she met a centaur
 and on its wrist
 a mohawk did grow

 Diogenes connects itself
 to Ariadne
 via a long thin dread
 and a barrel

 we who died in the flood
 salute you

 your gunereal fenitals