This One’s Up to Me
As crossing like six boundaries what is wrong;
This street builds too much, executed
Actions; But wait; But see the cross’d line
That made a troubl’d, dancing fool — idiocy
To think this old mare would bare to face
The old line you pared. You thought yourself a snowman (moron)—
Yet there was a laughing girl, and a
Boy with a brain full o’ shit. To be expected
When a brain o’ shit is a brain full o’ salt like mine.
Tell me not, you young fool:
Your experience . . . is naught but a gnat to a god.
In all crystal honey.
Thy rude fortitude is but a joke I now smirk at:
Counting down to Oblivion.
Yet, melting-ever is your evermask and evermore—
Your laughter is a worrisome task, and backed
Up on heaps of crud, and rotten filth; so carry
The filth inside, and cast it to the wooden panels
That are loath to bear your burden of bare
Loathsome ghostweight. For tho you have iron
In your blood, like the rest, you are gone:
—and yeah, there’s the stinker, right in the—
Gone! Gone! I do naught but cackle
Like an idiot, wasted god.
Now, die: die! Feel dead! For thee . . .
Come neath my roof and settle sweetly like a bairn
Basking in nearlife cooter-uterus and be calm agen.