the horned goddess Pan, aka Wendy,
set loose upon the world
a murder of prose
to feed upon the unsung notes
of operator assisted
unsolicited saxophone calls
spam is just another word for
nothin’ left but the blues
yes! the earth is flat
a triadic BeFlat dimished
a drone of rage against
the machinery of
murdered infants
in the prime of their joy
in all corners
of their mirth
childhood’s end came not
with a bang not with a
whimper
but a strange Doctor
Witch operating without a
lie of defense
a great poem isn’t going to
convince us of anything
convict them of anything
but it will remind us
of why we write
of thee why sing?
i hate the smell
of baby powder
in the mourning