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…