Donald Food is dead again,
His rope ladder became too dainty
For the hurly-burly of the contemporary
And it went out coyly
And gone his adam’s apple
And his teeth were obscene
And his hair’s bones were oily.
Roast beef his fingers beneath the pastoral,
Statues of the rotten creep in our once-dignified lobby,
And above all bones in the reliquary twisting
And luxurious in their boring panic!
The ghoul of his wrists becoming floral
In the wet named spaces the dull inhabit,
Where their nails are bright and their throats are clean.
Whence Food denied admission to
The hackneyed purgatory of scales,
Or interred among common ancestors,
Or written up as aligned with such and such,
With green oats for his final meal, which is common,
And his tone a bit much,
With leeway given for the bloom of his skull.
Revised was the shape decided on for his head—
Gone scape or crab grass or tight thatch of whales
Crammed into some outside place.
He died because he ate skeleton bread—
And snake fruit— And ghost water—
And he ate gloam loam, a pineapple slice,
And for the first time in his life a buffalo wing—
He was a real piece of shit, his water egg eyes
The exact opposite of an aphrodisiac.