Part 3

Lamp shaded, mirth gored wonder-iffic-no-tragi-comic, love debacle of concession, under six feet worm fed top soil shit,

My inheritance is a washed up de-ranged, free-ranged anger fucked ball, thank you Mr. President, and I’ll send you that Christmas ham,

In search of Donald Shimoda, with ball-less eyes, and an un-bricked, un-pricked, yellow prostitute named Road,

As I watched in spring horror, the music-men licked off banked notes by-standers, and bi-standards were lost, or revoked, for familial hate-nik, a goading sick late-nik,

The prophet was cut up, with dead fillet knives, served over-easy, under-hard-lee-a word swallowed top, I danced cursive towards the last best of us,

Burnt, in my father’s uterus demands on chalk-a-bloc of erasers, window bright days buried, lopped off, sanguine-ed, re-skin-ed, pardon-ed, bent-in to – day.