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?

Livery

I have murdered the night
before this one,
and I will murder the next night,
and the bird's nest that sits just
beyond.

Over the hill, was a long story
about three children
and a liver that no longer
functioned,
what gumption!

Oh how the leaves will change
when they hear this fucking news,
motherfucker,
and how the tears will melt the corners
of a mother's eyes because
fuckers turn brown
and turds blossom,
roving towards the bliss
of sharing.
Needles in haystacks,
spots on livers.
Yummy.

'Neath the Tree of Collaboration