Hot fascist on the bleak yacht of the dung gang.
High guns for pumps. Cool flats. Smoooth tunes.
Male gaze running over the deck in slop motion,
ground handlebar crossing the neck of
hostage time. Awful spill in the water.
The third phase of dung gang ropes you in,
thou tender urban sophist shaving
in a cherry bowl in the sun-slime—
The new age totalitarian bicycle gang phase, seeeee? sing:
O slender boys
on bikes deserve
their spirits are
It’s like comfort in sarcophagus.
It’s fun to peer up from Amduat,
scope constellation fixed in a hole.
Dung gang forgot what sex is,
so busy with projects,
burning Schreber gardens,
baking salt flats,
licking soft backs,
rolling black death-ball
down authorized channels—
etc. vacation great for bodies without organs, or
bods with good guts reserved in Tupperware.
Weigh stuff against whatever for good, ill,
heave filth thing up to bob in the sky.
B-Side to ascent is metamorphosis.
That’s comedy’s morphology.
Pluck an object to enter a raffle.
Death, be not cousin to Khufu or Kalkaster!
Kack, (n.) is shit too. It’s overwhelming.
I’m always unsettled by some lousy Kahlkopfgeier.