Thursday, April 13, 2017

Thoughts on the Cloaca Maxima

 there was a such a sweet tingle of bells
 in the morning
 lone and random water droplets
 were suiciding to the rim
 of a ceramic bell turned upright in the sink
 a sink with no home
 which laid on the side of the road
 and over which hung a sign
 crooked and still on fire
 make america grotesque again
 gorgeous rainbows pounded the earth
 in a mishmash of garden orgys
 where violins and chainsaws
 randomly entered any moaning body
 and all the cities were pulled toward the core
 until they looked like maps printed on taut navels
 pulled down toward the fire
 and the lovely sound of bells
 hollow ceramic skull bells played by spurting water sprites
 in a hurricane of the vast machinery of fetishes
 o tusks roaring up out of gardens of entangled brain children
 thicketed stirring your cactus stirrups are
 goitered gonad hats for the ladies of wee minster abbey
 make england's mutant baby burst the boil
 make amaerica grotesque again
 little nero nemo in the dream world pulling the long dugs
 of ideas who have no idea what he's doing
 lone and random water droplets
 suiciding onto the rim
 of the diving bell of chaos
 itself an orgy of dim constants
 such round whole terms were mouthed
 by a vacant gravitas to an hilarious
 and extremely weird end
 and that beginning would again remain
 grotesque and in pain
 the wonderful traditional meanings
 of every human disaster