Showdown in Buzz Town
Castrated and flipped
by the factories
who have it in mind to not spare us...
...why do they pause
and cruelly stare us
like red bulbs of raw meat?...
The star in my
streams a street
with no name...
Has all been constructed?...
I study in long hand...
I’ve been keyed in that
The Red Orangtan
has clearly spoken,
and so I enter unabashed...
We are so far marooned out at sea
and be a no light of limbo...
Akimbo we strut though!...
Though there’s nary a symbol...
Fleeting glance Larry
has stepped in to save it.
I wonder his intent, and attention
to denied libido...
His back arches crookedly
under the hot lamp
where we all strip, and pose nakedly
for the facsist flag jacket fuckers
to cause a ripple of a cosmic face-lift...
He was flipped for the factories, and slipped
a nuclear Mickey that dissolved
swift as acid
on a plastic placated smile...
“Clean your own dog dish out Corey, you fuck!...”
The lord of this manner is consorting
with a known felon over spilled ruins
of late night caustic hand tossed
cookie crumbs on the sacred tarry cloth...
A considerably gory detail,
but nothing has yet de-railed me too often
in this sectional sleek interior of mine mind
where the visual barriers are stripped,
and all is afforded the room to settle in dung dust...
Clean your kettle, and re-invent your
grismally gutted dreams
that long since have perished...
We see them screaming by
in the rear window of our ever spinning vortex,
you dig me?...
is this coming through the electrified fence of your
or are you lost like a lamb now forever buried by the barbed wires?...