Reality is
most real
at 0300
**** the
Witch of November
that dizzy *****
ain't got ****
on the
titanocunt of the morning
angel
The proverbial Kong
to our collective
Denzel
That hag
cuts cold
cuts pure
like the
fine Colombian
of
fabled yore
Cuts deep
through the hazy
procastinatory fog
of the day's
delusional din
Hey Nineteen
ye
I remember you too
Sleep tight
you Simple Minded
sonofabitch
And
don't you
don't you
forget about me
'Cause I'm acomin'
comin' 'round that corner
with
Krueger claws
and krugerrands
'Cause this old man
is definitely
too old for
this ****

Mostly
he'd just
like to
sleep

Forget that
bad moon
The shitstorm
currently rising
will assuredly
drown whatever
devils dance
its pale
lunar glow
Forever eventing
the pimply
horror horizon
of our
collective global
political shitshow

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Who'd do such a thing,
who'd want the rap?
Someone weak of knee,
I think.
Wanting of wood,
no doubt
(it reaching no more than three,
you see),
and in dire need of its
robust and ruddy sap.

Who planted the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
Its seed ensconced,
mayhap,
a hundred years past
(or three),
by a wigged wiggly lass,
sporting and wee,
riding wild a
brigand Dragoon
on some fine
Imperial
British afternoon.
The sewn and
sprouting stone
assuredly
shaken from
her silken
pantaloon.

Who felled the tree
at Sycamore Gap?
I dunno, prolly
the Russians.

Holy wars
Holy land
*******
that is some
toxic *******
Unholy desert
sand

**** bottles
and
mummified diapers
countless
broken bottle shards
twinkling among
innumerable more
road beer remnants
long since tossed
hubcaps
random
other bits
of chrome
license plates
and the odd
abandoned
*******
America the Beautiful
echoes with
each passing
semi
laden with the
necessaries of
capitalist progress
and
good
old
Christian
morality
shining bright
in the tears
of the
bypassed Native
crooked crosses
and
plastic flowers
mark and
memorialize
those lost
to the pursuit
of the
dream

We all hover
at the edge of
an abyss
of our own
making

A bit
hyperbolic
that

Certainly we
should allow room
for happenstance
in the
manifestation

But surely
our own doings
comings and goings
thisings and thatings
and raw
human
fuckallings
help shape
the void

Tinge the darkness
ever raven

Don't call me
Shirley
my mind bellows

That

That likely
accounts for
much of
my problem

I want to feel the weight
of the decades
in each turned page
Inhale the wizened nicotine effervescence
of the past

Ponder the origins
unclean
biological
ontological
*******
maniacal
of the sticky stains and splotches
amid the typeface

Spy the minute grains
of illicit substance
clinging to the binding
junkified
rarified
*******
hospitalized
truly unbound
screaming
through the ages

Hark the shoeless
crackhead cackles
Christ is Dead
*******
Gimme a dolla
instead
That I  
might better mark
the pages of this arcane
insanity

You see
her gstring is still wet
from the pole
and I would like to keep
these pages
as bright as
those holes