I want to round up all the money lenders also.
I know how it sounds.
All messianic and counter to love.
I assure you of my virtue,
through ignorance and rant
layered over a couple of firebugs of truth.
Opening a can of worms is impossible since
people started doing it,
so I usually spend a chunk of all my days
finding alternate versions to compliment
or to encourage something like “it”.
Tedium is the paradise of the poet.
That is an ageless fact, like
money and taxes.
Pursuant to your recent enquiry,
the stars do in fact taste like fame.
The odour is infamy. It eats your nostril raw.
It leaves you like
a meth head
with nar bitta tooth lef ‘in yuh’ jaw.
If you stay away from star dust
you stay clear of hot tar.
If you close out the sun though,
you turn to a ghost, which isn’t currently in vogue,
and mine as well me the morgue, how bizarre.
If you turn enough times in your grave you
can create energy for unborn post nuclear kiddies.
If you broadcast the inner machinations
of a conch shell to the cosmos
you will cause a cataclysm of falling stars,
which Benson & Hedges Corp. will envy and try to
find a way to sue or outlaw or destroy or corrupt.
If you listen to Nick Drake at the back of the bus
you can hear everyone’s thoughts and you glimpse the
certainty of the sublime, the twitching corpse
of people conjoined.
the Child’s pompous head turned up and
crazy guy dancing with his
cd walkman circa 89
and the factory eye s
and the girl with 12 inch soles
and the one with eyes like Mennonites
and you a little half tipsy from years of cid
sitting back with a notebook and-
this is my stop.