Burial of flower dreams, it seemed
Engraved boundaries of chalky parabolas,
Nestled in the crib of metropolis
Masquerading as multi-variable equations.
Value-skin, fission devices
Burials in mushroom dreams,
it seemed such virginal logic
Had painted the curtains iron.
Why must implosion of the soul exist?
The disrobing of bubbly Whitmanesque aspirations,
Flesh red sunsets beyond the bridge
And echoing Indians on the hot-tubless ridge.
Liquid-eyed bus station janitors
And cocaine queues of Coors executives,
Well behaved San Fran Marxist faggots,
And slews of Boston Aerosmith maggots,
I charge you all:
Pull your head out of the stem's nectar.
Cradle yourselves no longer,
In the matter, greyed by aviation paint,
Film noir, and black-magic punk.
Your numbers are up in the shooting gallery,
Quarter-happy archetypes in the midnight arcade.
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