I want to jump through my skin
from the pages of print and have ******* with you
my mind is off on an even keel
the unfolding of hands
at the diner at noon the slippery spoon
you want to impeach Trump but then who is left
a life of no regrets
Margaret Thatcher and the spinning wheel
beggars with no big deal
the thousand loosened horse men in the street

only the phantom should preach
to neck behind the microphone
the naked zombie & the telephone
alone with hands searching for its *****
art has changed the notion of thought
a zombie soul can't ever be bought
with hands to hold upon the nucleus

The phamtom is living under my bed
it comes to me in a dream at night to fright
picks up my soul and carries it across the room
draws strength from the conclaves of darkness
with a pitchfork in hand eager to understand
the remedy of suspicion
a soul in derision