My flab despair
How does one say today is magic as if one is speaking Congolese? Do not deify, it is already done, like the bastard sun burning.
The fret in 1976 said “The Cars. The Cars. The Cars are taking over the world.”
Today I see 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and blue and pink and blue and metal, metal, metal cars and pink
And pink and blue and blue and pink and pink cars, The Chariot Cars
Parked cars pink, for my 1976 aspect is now dead.
The server-girl dreadlocked angel
Shall we not be political? pay her seven twenty five per sacred hour and
She has two infinite children
And say capitalism is best, riding around in funny cars, waving funny flags,
Regurgitating flab despair
Saying funny sayings, listening to a funny talk show host, saying what
The funny talk show host said, watching TV,
Justifying themselves then justifying themselves some more before the pastor.
My God is Walter Whitman, sage fag poet,
for I am every atom of you and the cars and the bastard sun
And the flags and the sayings and the regurgitating and the funny fat talk show host too