Networks of stinky word fart bubbles in tepid spring water
spit from a methane snow monkey spring in japan, or wherever
dreams come from this day and age, festering cliche wounds
gangrenous memories of childhood trauma stink
probably forbearing penises to ejaculate, presently
at least, tomorrow is a mystery
like love, though less lame, to be sure
introducing a spiteful apocalypse, probably in truth.
Comedy is about timing and poetry is not
about timing, hyperbole is fact
funding foundations arisen, on the back of a well-placed quip
saying the rich should eat poor children
as a satirical aside, a creature cackles linking
knife key teeth in a mad guffaw, pointing at you
lengthy skeleton fingers portending doom
forbidden by the failures, drowning into mirror eyes
show me the truth of it, that this is stupid.
Laughter knowing its own nature multiplies
divisions of status, like a bucktooth boy
built for winter, gabble at the wind while spit flies
like the dude in Shine, derisive is the reaction
flowing from our eyes, from our ears, till we die
thousands of ends approaching, though we know not why
we find it funny, to acknowledge our own vain vanity.