The economy’s shot, man, but what else’s shot?

President of Worldly Bank “seen” and “ob-seen”










A certain dame

namely a leisurely pedaling French lady

said:



“riding pillion on my friend madame Baguette’s

tandem bicyclette

yesterday morning while seeing the sights

along the canal

I saw monsieur Zelick

taking ze leak



his long prospects

proportionate

the rate of return

commensurate

the yielding

parabolic

his projected growth cogent

the curve becoming a tangent

all revenues at a pace

and I called the police



fussed the chorus

of scudding crows

pigeons turtles crows snakes

as it came thudding about

the acrobatic insidious trickle



so many beasts the gutter

for one piss on

I ask you sirs?



we were all jostling from the ruthless

toxic gimlet of his rush



my predatory eyes the gimlet

that turned legible

as scrawls on a chalkboard

now the dingy borborigmic output



my gaze glazing upon the obscenity of it all

the bike stumbling

me coming a cropper

mm!



it saddens the hell out of my soul

that husbanding his resources

such a luminary can not

what does it tell qua the health of the world?



it overflew the gentle banks

of my contempt

and I broke into the bargain

mine nose



no nails no teeth

his worm

but in an hallucinatory fog

despite the floods of everything

I saw it through the dust hiding its head



would it eventually resurface harmless or limp

slender phallic lameness

I wondered



I frowned on the yellow ribbon

now evaporated like a specter

of nevermore land



threatened though I felt myself

as it encroached

outside the purview of any farther acolyte

I stood my dusty ground



a dialog of toads I followed next

I must have been half knocked out

I puzzle now about the bother of it all

did he throttle it to extinction

like a rope around a neck

when he heard the dry collision?



madame Baguette sprawled

like a blot or a doodle of bad taste

and me badly bleeding as I say



strata of fuzzed burred conscience

hollow themselves in the fragments of my skull



panic spills

like from a deceased meal



bomber fishes bomb about

and there are snakes in the acid lake

of my brain

where the ideas remembered melt your flesh



I’m baby faced

I have six legs

six tiny little stumpy hands

and inborn forks to eat with it at the end

of a few of them



it is his slug

his leech

sucks not the essence

just the flesh and the bone

and it has a face too cute

not scruffy at all

except when he’s farctate

he’s crammed to the gills

then he puffs his cheeks

and I fancy him not at all



the worm

the worm

on the long path home

up the scraggy hills



I am not a snitch

but I am scared

the wages of my sanity screwed



a batracian beggar am I

chaotic grow my scales now

after the communion

taken with so much withholden sperm”



dead-panned furthermore the snide lady

as the sound of the tape now wanes

and a trickle

fainter and fainter

is far off

far far off

slightly

yet

one guesses

guessed...