I COULD PROBABLY GO ON LIKE THIS FOREVER
Who let the flatterer into the gallery,
whip bent and tearing paintings from the new ceiling,
cast iron shackles arresting the dead bed maid
as the salary of feelings is considered -
the bed’s lungs won’t last tonight by the filth and bride;
poor poet at the pinnacle of passion; fail
the dragging of the lake, which hides under fat thighs
and cringes at the creaks of epileptic springs.