We, The Grotesque Nihilists of the Earth Need No Platform But the Soil. We are the Skeletons in Every Closet.

Gibbeted on the horn of plenty,
its gibberose gibberish
glibly gibboning in Gibbonian
gibe; knowledge might change
masks with the jibby-horse,
but they both sallied forth
from the same phanfatuous
molecufaucal fun-fountain mountain,
that gimcrack quantum nous-mooning
of the gilt-tail silly, international,
silver string submarine band
of rascally poly-gemew, but
who knew?

We, here in the Fauberg remains,
still loft our fat-witted fauch-lips
into whatever truncheons joy has
leavened, and moreover, through
our phane fauces give solace,
or fanfarrado, to every avocado,
to fanfreluche it on its sway,
for the earth is teeming with nonesuch,
and as such, all obey
the phallophoric Hellenism
of Syntaxis' slender fanatical singer
whose fingers fend the gimbri,
and gawp the yutang's
juniper loa.

Every beast is fanged by something,
and the feast of the world is closing
its mouth around us all, and thought
be its rickety killogy, a stoa hung
in Cimmerian vacuum.