Now is the time for all retroactive poppies to succumb to the fate of their chromosomes. The neat brown cub scout leaps over the pimple-pocked demagogue as shaken instruments recall the time of every mother’s signpost: pygmy erythrocytes writhe as copper-bellied stroke victims count their dental fleas. Speak now and forever decay with fido’s folded daily news hugging your scented groin. The TV’s not so late as it is hypothetical. Nature mimics Art Carney as carnivorous waitresses brandish cryptic menus in Sanskrit phallography: in the deepening pulse of the background rise numerable focal planes locked in mid-air collision—no one listens.

Make haste but leave out the alarm clock, gruesome with imbeciles leaving for work. The drop of a cool cap accents the light blindly fumbling for hold in the slimy subway-surface malaisia. Still no one captivates little bro freak as he watches with faint growing nausea, soon to expose his deep-seated dismay at the burgeoning blister of his brain. Catching a cold he escapes into nothingness, lost in the flame of his corpulent ruse.

Seeming to dissemble, someone’s blinking phrase lies like a purposescrew in fruitless near-demise. Whining bards reek form and substance, caging from the pavement like rows of sharkfins lined in rows of tombstones. Dogs in mid-bite locked in death struggles harp the midnight gloom. Poachers seek to prove; “the point is lost! the point is lost!” from the rear windows of a Cadillac hearse careening down the exit ramp toward glimmering towel-shaped cases.

Schemes appear, resolve, dissolve, and blossom; moonlight spears cavort and jostle; tame white steers glaze hanged brothels; neophyte seers hit the bottle.

A short time later, miles away: little bro freak goes out to play. Laced with icons, holding his own, he stalks the mirrors clad in bone. Soflty.

You’re not the first to wish the worst, of several clones too weak to thirst. Portentious trophies gather dust. Amalgamates decay to rust. In hallowed graphs we place our trust, assumptions fast and furious.

Left alone, a greying shopper plucks only the recently thickened nodes from the balustrades that line the canoe. Songs escape briefly, then languish as it dawns. Opulent mongrels. Painted lakes. Grisly denizens, foaming poster-children, mawkish and puerile with stinking smiles reminding you that the tea water’s gone. Oh spare and dim! O rank and file! Anthrax-ridden sponsors lick the rays that fall from His white hands.