The bang bang of the fruits of literature and the bruising after,
you bang bang bang, I bruise for no reason at all.

A good guy, perched on the excavator, extends its metal arms
and the moment of exposure, of shame

condensed into a twinkling, lasts almost forever!
The summer dew writes back, says you’re still not cryptic enough.

Fury has many categories: flattering, hair pinned in tight bun,
stream of cat piss, unaggrieved, engrossed by the broken soul......

Has the glittering system made us weak?
The fish bone chorus is violent, cracking the scenery but blocked in the throat.

What’s most serious doubtlessly happened before all the talking.
Swashbuckling heroism?  Haven’t seen it in ages.  On heaven and earth’s

temporary chopping block, you can put fir, white oak, red pine......
Spirit and the flesh, carved right down to the quick!