Vents pumpin’ C.F.C,
Levitate synths past dance-floor into stratosphere,

William’s Mix infiltrated by punting, flat rims,
Shootin’ sulfur.

Pilot Birangonas to Burigangas,
Give it a few months, or 528;
Commence the auteur fixations with framework;

Project en masse overflowing balconies,
Rape babies, Banksy’s ruminations at Gaza,
Weiwei’s hanging rubble children.

Laughing, in rivers of Ray bans;

German architecture always was the best.

Lawn stretched,
Hosting what was left over after the gangsters were done fucking the pundits:
Senile alleys cats begging to sit on Lincoln’s lap.

Drip, drip.
Suppository at the door,
Enema was the vaccine to all Lenin’s woes,

Curt shots of memory ricochet off lecture halls
Into hypodermic needles, born intravenous

Chunky Kamikaze strolls me into Gatling recitations of my how my mother died in bed while reaching for her revolver.
She laughs: “I am done with you all”
Too late,
The suburbs have all cut off their ears.
Photograph: Post Box Entertainments

2 thoughts on “In Bloom

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