Vanitatus Imperium

Battered gal’s ‘roid rage soothes the million dollar condors

and their lowly worm’s luscious cameltoe which,

like a vornado creampie in monkey sportswear,

emits a “cry of the soul” as radiant as the art of songs,

or the art of thongs, or three-pronged arguments

that wrap into the haunch of dead enthusiasm rapt

in henna, terracotta, and polyurethane like a swizzle stick

in the (e)urethra of the truly bored. So strike up the sarod,

fellas, and wiggle your fngers on the skins, drummer boys.

Like you, I hear it all technically, a mountain of rouge

on a pale imitation, wallowing in the anemic spirit of time.

Call me e-mail — call me anything — but call me.

The process was interrupted by an abrupt allocution:

“I don’t want you to conceal anything.”

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