Songs for Sanity

I was born in a silly basket,
my daddy’s breadbox greater and more silent than Clara Bow.

I was a traveler and a science-fiction ideologue chomping
at a fair fair franchised piece o’ bitsy.

I was a San Francisco purple flounder
given to tantrums and poshlost, cancer and jaunts to Soho.

*

This boat of clay has spun on Tuesday’s tide:
my brother’s name is Outrigger.

Thinking about what a friend had said and hoping
that bastard would fry.

Jose Jones bought the film rights and your action is
affably laughable, motherfucker.

*

i love the spring. fits and the poor mutts, the early crack
of baseball bats and sewer rats shooting smack and creamy

mice rack, out back. australia’s lack of silly string may bring
lord of the dance, lady of the diamond ring. she’s stacked.

i washed my back with irish spring. when i was black, i smacked
of bling. adjust the tracking to avoid attacking aesofetida (hing).

fancy put her kelly in my stomach, in my sack. save up some
sperms from last week’s nasdaq. grab a sandwich, blow, then hack.

*

Pappy was a lonely grifter, adrift on a sea of sprezzatura.
I met my wife long after the mist—Shaugnessy (up) left the nude lug.

Channel-surfing fridge magnet, madly surging flannel big rig.
Put Chris Hoppes in your pipe and smoke it, popish vagrant.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye.