My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?  

I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.

O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.

I am undone and all my wanton ways are nothing
my wishes now but clay. I am the dry husk of a man
defeated by machinery.

Ah, but should the mercy of your redemptive tears
tattoo my face and moist forgiveness give me hope
would there be awakening.

The damp soil beneath your naked toes
fevers at your flesh to send you reeling
into deeper dark adventures.

Until the final breathless gasp
the voice of angels crying in your skin
Awakens my fertile humanity.

Leave those toys and that blessed car
we will wallow in the damp grass.