Little Birdie

O! Little birdie, little birdie
for what have you come to beg?
"A portion of wine, nickels fine,
and my wife's rotten eggs."

If only you'd look into the
goddamn middle, you'd see it's
only knives and missing fingers
in there.

There's no sauce, but quicksauce,
and no subjugation that ever ends.

Is there a name for chaos, or a fist? Or
is the understanding between flesh and
a stone in the same likeness as that between
syrup and a waffle?

You shall never know the toils I've toiled,
or the pants I've soiled, or the heads I've rolled with my shiny new blade.

The time has come for shapes and plums and the moaning orgasms of morning.
The bliss rolls out of ears and nasalways like blood from the bone of a calf.
Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! That's what you want to do.

If this poem were any damn good, you'd know it as soon as you saw it, and
you feel it vibrate your clitoris and/or cock, whichever the case may be.

Check ONE: __ time __ casual __ frog __ kneecap

Take a fall, take a risk, one man falls and the other just dies. You'll know the difference
when you hit the ground.

Taste a perineum.


Art ain't no damn good these days?