By the sight of engine blocks
      melted on the frays of mocking birds--the city is mohawked      

          and the large intestine of  betrayed Alice is a flintlock             in the early morning
                  --carnal ***** flooded with music and chardonnay
                                     bruised by the fiery sort haunting the genius drawing
              of       humor--a tumor of gunpowder and splattered cardinals.

                                       We have no kings--just kids
--no queens, just compensation--

                                         and on the hood of a 1969 Chevy Impala
with the American Jolly Roger ablaze
                                         like that of a tick in the sun--wanting Alice carves
                   the cheeks from Skippy's black wound-up drool toy--in his mouth
                                        is the last word to make deities cry sentient lives

          and now you see it, the glint, the ball, the powder, and the breezeway windows
                             carved in the gum line of his mouth in reverse,
                                                        ­            and how she whispers, "Impress me."