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!)