Wasn't it all just
so lame!—how when
push came
to shove—late last
night
at around five
in the would-
be ripe
climax of morning—and the
moonstomached and
rotting old
God of the past
finally bucked-
up against
that wine red and salty bright
wave of the future—
the skirmish that
necessarily followed
only resulted—inexorably
in a slow dribbling
slobber—of
pisscloudy purple?
