Hypocrisy is an exercise book.
Silently our mother returns moneyed noisily with debt, swollen with
Flutes grown jealous of the physical coitus
We take like an enema
To dry the orchestral famine of our detergent noses.
I won't forget, I say, the border of the heart,
Where it slopes into a reddish nest
And birdly open its buttocks buttered as an defenseless olive.
Marinated in gently scornful sobs clattering
Like pain-brined money to an unforgivably capered counter,
Our dark tongues pass in their moldy hangings,
In these, these blue blue eyes given over to repugnance.