drunk on the fat of the moon
we made our faces into masks
each
waxen like a cadaver's skin
eyes with no light in them
we lean on the balustrade
I cannot kiss you like this
our mouths do not meet up correctly
I stand, bowlegged by fashion
the wind red in your dress
I eat no fruit
navigate the underground river by star chart
LOUD WET FART?!
SLIPPY'S GIANT BUTTOCKS ENGULF THE FRAME
THEY WIGGLE AND JIGGLE AND BRING ME GREAT SHAME
INVERSE QUADRUPLETS, ASURA'S HEAD
DEMONIC FACES FOUND IN THE SHADOWS SINGING ABOUT BUTTOCKS
I'm hungry and thinking about making a pizza
That is now part of the poem
The oven's full of tinfoil, marked with the silhouettes of bacon
This is all part of the poem and I am the poet who did this to you
If you try and sing it back to me you will forget the words. The end.
Mieux vivre à travers la machine