Sunburnt, walking banal as fog
Through the whorfed streets browed,
The baby batman cradled like a taste for revenge darkly
In our arms.
Prison was like a children’s story,
Full of beastly ghosts & mirrors.
I cheated the purported fog with the blood of dancing
With the stars
& shattered the ghostless marsh where men don’t
Fuck the Bank-of-America-blood-stained-glass-
Mirror of churchy cannibals—
Alive as a starling at dawn.
Baby batman said:
“The short hands of celebrity billionaires open
The nunneries of questions by hand.
I, detective-like, have the most conclusive evidence
That arms and munitions in large quantities
Provide to now pervade all the spheres of human life,
Like a Starbucks which sells cheeseplates of ignorant STDs.
Imagine, the twin towers as a cheesegrater
& America as a bland soggy serial of hallucinated days—like salad.
America is a salad full of cheese.
But who made cheese?
Terrorists cut the cheese.
American foreign policy pulled all their fingers.”
There were no longer shadows to help him see more,
“I oughtta suff’cate u w/ moist towelettes.
You will fall down in yr home & curse the withered hand.
Your mind, full of the nondairy creamer of human kindness,
Will carry old newspapers around a ferris wheel of bullet chambers.
Kindness is a form of buttsweat.”
Effaced by a monumental thought of seasons,
The idea of a transcendent hue is back,
Baked local & fresh.
Turn off your brain & say something.
Benjamin Franklin drew nigh the wharf,
Leopard-like; his oil was very superior, clear and fine.
Heretofore an unmatched experience--including cake.
A downward spiral of dress rehearsals.
The wharf was a window of mopeds taking a turn for the scandalous.
It is 2day & 2day suxxx.
Besmirch yr heart,
In the abominable twat of your partners in learning.
An orchard appears.
Shoes & oranges bend down the branches.