Specter of sanguine ale, poured into a tortoise-shell toilet,
grotesque levee camps set up in the spleen,
kumquat drunk, quietly affixed by the sex appeal of the carnival,
without emperors, without fondue, just truffles in cheval dung.
Photogenic illuminati Harold-Blooming in communistic Laos, apocalyptic rose.
Quick salve of nauseous cum on equivocal thighs,
the pissless taverns of space, lit irremeably by 2
fraudulent infinities, a sailboat stranded in horseshit,
some sailor-friendly feminist name prodded onto wooden ribs.
Sour flowers without what martyred braziers,
a nude paratrooper off course, the semen of a prince inspecting
a drive-in matinee —film adaptation of Freud— without words,
a giant axe luring pine boxes with soiled wine and black termites,
to divide the people of history: ancient or modern.