verbal vomit, ad nauseum,

never ending literary sneers & veers &

rears, callipygian hearts tighter than

the holes they cut in watermelons,

and what do we call such an act, such

a world, a word, of woe and gardening hoe

and hoe of another variety, why,

i can see it now,

utopia, full of whores and door-to-door salesmen –

but no, it's all telemarketers now,

so let's travel back in time,

to the space-eighties,

nineteen-twenty-five,

what a year.