The tongue you fork is your own. Cut glass inside your head. Make it real through sonic effusion. The ghetto jester has a gift for you. Do you want to receive it through the cancer of your eye, or will the silken bird suffice? I say we meet at the end of the earth, and take a train back to nowhere. Resist the urge to cackle: this is the only book we have to eat. Enjoy it while there are still ghosts to remind us of our sensual past. The future is yours to scream at. Blast through it with a nail stuck to your forehead, wearing the earplugs of medieval saints. The only allusion in this poem is your own delusion. Divide yourself by five, and then vanish. You will wake up as a thunderstorm, and the era of disco will begin again.
