Grotesque Verse

shot wheel smack boulder solar trance
loudly.
this is the stratospheric inheritance --
an elvis song in minor key,
transfiguration bullet, stay the run tide turned inside
a muse.

If the elephant is sleeping, she lilts to this side
-- and that.
That is elegance and fortitude.
A great big house, for an enterprising mouse,
it smokes weed, fat with a pink nose, and ink stained forepaws.
If jokes are the mocking tone of life washed lies,
there is a taste for truth and delicate wandering eyes.
That searches for meaning in the corners of a frown.
All these things have come up from the earth, the glitter and blink,
and make strange noises, and warmth and dirty oil.

But, it is the same dirt and the same sky and the same ocean.
And salty sea. What have we?
Nothing, but to ultimately rely on miracles.
Turn my wine into water, I'm sick of drunkenness;
Close up the sea, I wanna drown.
I won't eat your manna, I relish the pangs of starvation.
There, now a Negress crouches and clutches her aching skeleton.
Goddamn your insolence.