where is the dog dead?
how is the road bent?
how did I get here?
where’s my bike?
that’s the only way to leave these days
(try as I might)
my bike is over there shot in two by a
eunuch wearing an armani coat holding a winchester
the armani is well fitting, looking bourgeois
someone call the cops, forget the cops….
how about us going to the library to plug
into more kant and descartes?
nothing to live for?
nothing to die for….
(that’s a graver statement)
o’ sartre thou pluckest me out
o’ sartre thou pluckest
there’s still nothing to fix my bike with