1.
The end is a radio wave
Whose origin is a nauseated human
Just yesterday
The dog was ironic fodder
Like Elvis's hips—too fluid to sculpt
To script
He was belching up Nathans on Nietzschean TV
To make the pigs marvel
He fires up the Klimt machine—
A monk is a station
A someone gets off there
2.
Nothing about
Antiquity's posed
Wunderkinder
Is scatological
A balloon of the unsettled mind
Indulges the mountain
Seems to dwell on "F" haphazardly
As is evidenced by
One going into zero
Or the nerve we can't feel
It is the rubble of nexus loving nexus
It is the ash of a moth amorous about conflagration
Smashing its skull
Up against Sunday's blank wall
I say,
Just go there, Sheila
& dig the scene
Only
Manufacture instruction manual
To penalty box
In a space you can't quite
Experience
