That lonesome crater
can never be filled
with anything but
settling dust.
I let my orbit speak for me
in a complex elliptical pace
always alternating closer
and then farther away.
No one ever goes out there
and that’s exactly why
the bombs are tested where
empty golden sand and white snow
can be painted by the incandescent
glow of a quadrillion campfires
and antiseptic Christian innocence
won’t sphincter-pinch the
fusion out of my audience
with its extra organs
providing their intoxicating vitamins.
How I don’t need lubricant!
I need hubris-can’t!
I need lubri – can!
How I don’t need wine!?!
I need wherene!?!
I need howne!?!
I am tired of ******* the last leg of this race.
I want to exchange my passioff for something…