Intertwining Rules

Stretch sits on your lips!
 The armor of intertwining rules
 tightens around
 the inflatable doll of your ego.

 The rancorous, gigantic, right dressing ghost
 sucks the juices
 from your virtual backbone.

 You have prayed for the preservation
 of a refuge tree
 and cursed as you swerved
 to avoid a bum

 You have reserved your heart
 for your caviar cat.

 She, Miss Meinhof, has turned herself
 into your major, your Ersatz,
 the woman of your alibi, your bedpan.

 (You have mixed the grit
 of her tiny roasted balls
 in your breakfast stick.)

 You are still splint-preaching
 through the fumes
 of your clumsy days.

 Lack is your means of exchange.
 Your revolution is
 a reheating of mere milky mashed potatoes.

 And the blunt jackknife of your sneer
 you jab
 into the embryo
 of any elan.

 (With panache they're bricklaying
 the endless wall
 against which you'll soon
 be shot to pieces!)