But the power outages in Heaven,
or the concentrated sulphuric rage of a dog
that's denied it's pom-pom meal,
or the grit showed by a crown that faced a big blue bug,
or the achievements of the fallen cookie;
there must be room for the rusted prostitution
of God's vestigial hobbies,
for the matte personality trying to find a way
to not be a pococurante,
for the truth value of a fiscal year to be decided
over a game of arm-hair ripping,
for the civil gauze to allow its memory clot
to mature into a functioning worker;
not done with the perjuring aphid,
the bundled and slouching rose,
the anaphoric destitution of history,
the tiger's salivating mouth;
don't even bring up Count Chocula,
the tide of blinding, burning magnesium
that suits the ******,
the twine chairs and the feet rested on their heads
as they wait;
what's mizzling here, I haven't got protection!
Bad, bad son, running to the dust,
to the accounting that's hurt,
mesmerized by the cult of burnt meat,
holding up.