Like a Wig of Rubber Turds, and Suit of Whoopy Cushions

grey ivory hotel butter
miserable with aliens
they dig through
slime plaque for glass
just rutting in useless
confections
eager to be trussed into
broken machines
that gurgle what's ever lest
ingest

i haught
i haught
i haut like tudor in stupor
in the sill of its eternal miniature

Window Cambridge Mass near MIT
like the brick insides of a dead albatross
the jibbering flake who ruined my experience
of the student's little gallery
or the school's big idea

{i take a brick
up one stair
in the well
of echoes}

a boat that in going
made its own music

//

i get something more like
a giant dolphin made beatnik style
with layer on layer of melted wax
but like those bubblehea
d

all fins (all finite, oil finish, feel sans F)

it's a confetti fountain
and sits at the center of the cafe' triste
literally topical tassled denim table clothes
spattered with paint
waiters like nudes
but in cameo
the beatnik candle-bottles
the patrons

waxy
candle-bots

the smoke nearby
churdling
from the joke store
chimney