Under the Fonz’s gown
Too slick for the beard of the moaning pharaoh, whose bleat
A moron has begun to eat,
Meat butter primps its cocktail and lays down.
Ass-spattered bosses, freaks
On the edge of a vacant spill, chill
With the passive bird below. Its trill
Is heady in the trollop’s skin, and squeaks
A quim or memory tent
Of a faux marriage and its familiar noose
Crappy with all its loose
Collapsing falters, its Elmo-less descent
Like Chatterly’s hairspray.
The cocksure dog beholds this spell with fleas
Touching, around his saggy cheese
The goatish indolence of labia
His faux ness all the while
Gleams fro-ward, mightily, into a clammy mash
Of cauterized darkling flesh
In a dull ecstasy, his spider-guile
Bent on the man-whore
And his tinfoil fool, to whom Ripple-drinkers come
And go in rectal salaam
More addling to the moonlit slime, and more
Indefensible in thought
Than pleasure’s chaos. Yet since this
Is pressured flesh on Adderall
Mustn’t it be sort of crumpled? Are we not
More ignobly depressed
In the fake mountains that Modernity built
Before it teetered? The lame guilt
Snuggles softly into a hornet nest
In the act of jiving, until
The fairy swish of laughter is rehearsed
With headlines bored enough to burst
A three-eyed cavorting head, that trills
So crazedly, its foamy gauze
Defacing, with a flattened shimmy, the whiny
Blue-red version of itself, divinely
Nattering on and on about its phony laws
As drear as adipose
So I becomes a lowlife and the band
Exudes a muchness ― a damp clam
Toward which all mollusks droop… their pantyhose
Otohime 