Hello smithereens! the Westerton Bells
have been melted into bullets, so Fascistly unpoetic;
fierce revolving of stars, Rotgutten Karmas;
dysphemism in the chest and head;

I’ll never forget you; who could
with that dent you left?

hypoxic illusions moving westward years later,
while hoping for a moreleaf clover,
finding only diversionary thought patterns
along with the Rosy Retrospection bias and folk intuition,
[make no king of me] as the dark cloud moves,
bribing viands and villains, manufacturing the outrage,
saying, “you’re with Our now,”
with marbles in their mouths
the Kings and Queens of Warshington
have slowly succumbed to this
newly spread American disease;

[everyone is wrong].