Baby

Her tum tumtum, his velvety time.
Good and deep, dipping down.
Put on the tongue, bury the rhyme
into the folds, into the ground.

Red rum humdrum, beg it to die.
In a little garden, it will be had.
Loud and hard, slipping down
in a little garden, it will be mad.

It will begin to stop Mother Nature’s magic clock
And everything will laugh and sing as if it were
a part of everything. So grab its wretched hand
and watch it expand, from life to death in a breath.

This angel with bat wings,
this creature you’ll come to love,
Red veined skin and other things,
this creature you’ll come to love.

Slayer's "Chemical Warfarre"

It gapes, this catatonic toddler’s mouth of a city. Rancid greens of purification
streak the sky all Impressionist, marking the lines that segregate and delegate
the flow of traffic in the throughways of the air we breathe. Gridlock

now antiquated, these oxygenated denizens roam where they want to,
all around the world. Their flight path an abyssal abscess,
but these lepers flying, floating freely through the cosmos,
cosmopolitan ideals stripped down to stars and garters, they feel

love like Donna Summer’s eve, douche! No gas masks, no respiratory devices.
Just pure death in shades of gaseous smiles swirling in thick vapors coming
for you, all over you, all over the land on a loco motive of smoke

in the way that tangerines

taste just like the way tambourines sound
all alone in the quiet of jaded stone, a pretty lime hue
like that above encircling, entering, penetrating us and our defenses.

I’ve come to watch your gardens grow, mouth breather township. Don’t disappoint,
don’t let me down, deliver,

deliver,

deliver.