Keen Man,
oh ELF of the Flyway.
Your summer sails grace the vulcan fringe
and stand on pure islands
of phantasm joy.
Cold fetus up on his feet.
Waving tiny fists,
angry little meat.
Gird your Jeff with awesome word groupings.
What an amalgamation of words!
Apricot
SHOULD BE USED
much more
in contemporary poetry.
Firehose
of powerful words,
slide, sweet Jesu,
along the astral slip ‘n slide,
laughing away signs of sin.
PRAY,
and
offer them as alternative. Something
that will really
get them moving. You know,
an INSTIGATION.
When they cleaned their heads
they bounced around the living
room with a childlike energy.
Pure ANIMAL electricity.
Golden
bells tinkling in the background
type
convulsion.
He kept the cobra as an inarticulate pet.
SOMETHING
that relied on the emotion
that which hotbloods
always demanded.
Also on striated science
displayed in pictures,
one unholy epic to the next.
“I tickled your ballsack
as it quaked,
dire brains of intransigency
with venom.
For the feminine quaints,
who among you famed for breaking
QUANTUMÂ encumbrance of brotherhood?
I heed you in my very dreams!”