Corvettes & Cigarettes
It was the spring you read Daughter’s of the Wasteland
and melted your pantyhose to your legs.
Maybe April 26 (or 27th)
“English majors
can discover the correct date”
because the Red Sox stole home for the first time in 16 years
(thanks for the stanza, Jack. I owe you beers)
Material is the message and I feel so inspired
in the darkening state of the Republic,
all them titties
and music videos about human trafficking.
Put some pencil on it, mons Venus.
Let’s wake up handcuffed
a little wisp of tiger, LA woman.
We saw the warlords at the park again.
They used to be charming but who will save art
in times of crisis.
Caravaggio stabbed a guy over a bet on a tennis game.
Well, there it is:
femoral artery bleeding corvettes & cigarettes,
cruel fate coming on like a sunset
Oof! West is East, too. In that regard.
Split fountains. Warm vodka in peanut butter jars.
I’m blown up, walking crooked
I had $20 on Caravaggio all along—
Now what are we going to do
with all those dogs
guarding the gates of hell?
Horror Sleaze Trash 