(Heartblocks fail to strike them.
Untasted of fear laws, young minds are rash with)
Mistime loose dogs nuzzle up dead shells.
Revolution for nothing.
(Opulent graveyards, nevermind beliefs;
peril is none.)
Tumid mind is tuner no more.
Vagueness expressed utterly.
Silence is passive.
For the world of entertainment
you’d sell every vestige of self;
morals, spirit and ideals.
A sick anotus, disgust.
You’d even sell those big promises.
You’d even sell your mother
but i’d be blasted off with blather
’til poison comes from mouth, teeth and hands.
Environment safe and clear,
fending for your end only,
I’d practise gawky ways.
I’d spit on you.
I’d spit on everything you trade.
CARDIAC CRISIS APPARELS
“A Fuck Off to My Generation”
(Articulate liquid fever.
All these sips are inexorable.
The exceptional cocktails haze.
Stomach came down on plenty.)
Double the potions, upon exotic bottles dotted.
Voices are mute.
White Jesus at the bar finked by exorcised demons. T
he devil always fires on.
(We are the owner’s income;
some ribald, some gallant – catered booze corpses.)
Bog bodies home.
Failed youth association.