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Sky underfoot,
Hungry, the poets wish to graze, swipe their tongues,
On a slice of the pie.
And I
Lie through mauve smacking lips,
The drool streams spewing out the corners
Of my mouth.

Wouldn’t I like, yes, I would like,
A slice. I would like
A little cash for the God of machines
To gnash and transfer to the pockets
Of certain fat twiddle-ly landlords.

Wouldn’t I like, yes, I would like,
A slice. I would like I would very mach like,
To consume some vice. To be a performing monkey
And get my sliver of a silver slice. No. Not too harsh
Of a comparison. Say.
An orgasmic prostitute
Walks in the door, receives her
White envelope,
Checks the number, fucks
The clock.
And in a hate fuck, fickity fuck, tell the fat bastard
All. He’ll wobble his hog head till he cums.
Sometimes he is quite educated, quite a Harold reader,
Wobbling his blooming hog head till he cums.
Ho hum.
I wish to skeet skeet skeeter through
This life; nothing like turning my flesh out, share a bit of my sacred,
Rub it on an oiled pole,
For some implants and
A photo shoot – some frosty trail around the rims
Of my nostrils, yes, yes. I would like,
To feed my children
Minced meat pie.

©hRj 2006