computers can’t compete with an old bloke

clad well, grant me that much, at least, & he’s got

the know-how, & lying in a drawer at home

a t-shirt which says in a large-impact font

       GIFTED LIVER, & sure, more power to him & his gang

i say, they’re still working the net & the angles

& putting it out as easily & happily as 3-year-olds dance

in 4-dimensional poems about fisher-king heroes

it’s as plain as pain & even more

joyous than the void, this life-sized chunk

of pulp fiction with your name on the inside

this thing you can look up

to, too, almost a flamboyance of flamingoes

it’s better than great, it’s alright



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Wasn’t Listening



& you weren’t with me either

& we rehearsed our insertions


& waited for something objectionable

& went on like that for quite a while


& then we got worn down

& couldn’t hear anyway


& all we had was ourselves

& so much more we couldn’t recall


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