kick the scoundrels off

whereto whereto (high priest) with thy faking feet?









spandrels are my shoes... but thine?

thine are just bullshit

bullshit



the toothless flow of accident is a happy looking backward

when the moon’s a-pissing wet



gross misconception of the distances involved

with the overclouded brain helping none



survey the empty spirals where thou choreographeth those too engrossed steps of thine

and perish in thy useless pursuit

or else visit my lithe ziggurat and also fall on thy four paws as thou useth to

for the beast are thou



so scram

before hovering unobtrusively in the margins a (re-)beginning starts

catching thee with thy leaden (so drownable) pants still on



stranger structures might be expected then

the dynamics are now above weird

the cycles improve into worse

only that isn’t that just as it rightly should?



whether anomalies are attempts at apt escapism

at being swept along by the flow of accident

or crooked matters are... for idle abstraction

still the power remains mine to say

scram

bullshit

fake feet



a choking agency arrested my running joke

thou were so red in the face

I said rage? conniption? what?



grow up creep

thou never were the main character

only thy cheating fake feet brought thee here

falsely



ludicrously unwieldy feet carrying thee to the door of the devilish scoffer

the core or mytheme of thy con shamed to smithereens

and thou now sputtering indignant proficiencies

at a deaf wall



crazy and enthralled by the sheer entrapment

of the unremarkable it all



(eloquent dream where none of yourn stand still extant

dreary paragraphs elided

ours lives less laden)



(breaths drawn easier now

when much of the bullshit’s been silenced)



(hush...)