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To Any Reader
whose
mind’s uterus is awash with Nietzsche’s semen
Lasso
sots-- sieze mistakers, peach sniffers, lazy boys
and hijack penthouse esprit de corpsers who travail
and noose our groceries with their amiable remedies
ejaculating mendicants nourished on vermin.
Our peaches are tits, our repentence laughter
Oui-Oui fashions on fat payments and our vows
we return Queer upon the bourbon train
crayoning vile eye leak to lather up our spots
On fever’s orielle lies MarilynManson tripled up
as he longs for Bercy meat for his enchanted tribe
and the mettle of Richet our volunteer, our son, eva
porates the entire fucking chimerical savannah with a match
Celestiel tarnation rips up our filament
O objects of repulsive things we treasure like repasts
upchuck the verse which denvers us to kindred oompas
across horrid sands to traverse the putrid fen
As a craven debauch will kiss and gorge on
any maryred tits of our best cathouse
so we volunteer Delphine on some clandestine alley cat
and press upon her forte mignon our best yokono grapefruit
Sir! raise the swarming ants like googled helmet worms
easing into our brains, our robot hippo camp, our vermouth
pur plink the people of Demuth when we blow bad breath their way
l’amour converts la mort-- kindred fluvia invisible, plaintive,
absurd
If the vials, the mayhem, the rapiers and arsons of the General
Rape
have not again embroidered replete our graphic work to come
the banal canvas of our piteous distinies can smack the monkey
then
so our violin necks the mispelt difference stoned on Helen
Jackie’s ma regrets
Hardy people, feed the jackals parmassan, the lyceč is a panther
those apes, those scorpions, the vultures and those slime
all the galloping monsters who hurl their grog our way—rampant
through menageries inflammed with DeNiro pecadillo girls
It’s a lot like getting laid a bit mechanical but fucking plus
if you shake and shudder then heave and cry out loud to the globe
the feret cunts still volunteer their dirt to breeze you to it
and dance your ball joints mounted on their most available fiction
Well it’s a long us and the eye charges steep for each tear on her
you dream along while sexy UFO’s smoke your dearest hooka
and you thought you knew it all, been to lectures, earsucking the
normal soup
of hypodermic critics, readers, ungainly in your reflection—Twins
brother!
24 02 05 SR Paris

Stephen Rodefer, photo by Robin Purves
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