We laugh and quite hysterically
as they ****** me and by me
we
mean you.

Chrystallised calamity trapped in
amber permanently,
an eternity of diffused light.

And it's the cutting edge that cuts us clean,
the torso of the queen told well the story
wherein the demons dwell.

The modern mobsters.

They're selling people on the market stalls
with popcorn mix and aniseed *****
and dontya know
people sell very well as ornaments
to decorate the boardrooms of
bored business men.

Swift was wrong,
we're the midgets and the giants were with us all along
it's just we couldn't see them with our eyes
lashed to the treadmill.

By any stretch a longer stretch of my imagination
would get me two to ten
in the pen'
upstate,

but they clap me in irons and
throw away the key
and that screws me
for everything.

There's nothing quite like a memorial
to remind you we should all be thankful
for something.