While Sitting In A Bar On Sunset Boulevard

there’s no tongue here to sing
the ungarbled song;
for each good love there are a dozen
treacheries;
little men sit here picking at their
wounds;
one more drink and the desire to fuck
something,
a desire to be   loved for the lie
and the trick
and a face without a
face;
hacking crackling laughter;
fools trying to outfox
fools–
pigs fuck pigs
dogs fuck dogs
stuffed owls fuck stuffed
owls;
the music is turned   high,
higher–
like needles to awake the sleeping and
the dead;
there’s no chance:
the music was written by
the dead.

nothing–the spider, the octopus, the
leech is as ugly as
man,
and nothing had a better chance
to be beautiful.

red shit, baby, and the gloves of
banality.