Friday, June 05, 2009

upjets of the scoot plitic

there in the market
he burns himself
whittles down
with his own teeth
his heft
I have come to be honest
I am not arrogant
see me before you unarmoured
I smile like a facebook on drugs
my girl-smile my garden unfolded
I am all such pink in a heavy suit
there in the market watched
he burns he whittles he is not
a Buddhist monk this is not
that burning
only a death of a thousand tics
a string accompaniment
of mass public bukkake

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