He calls our two
locations
parasites. A
parodic paralytic,
picking your
poison. Your
sugary chivalry is
sickeningly sweet,
sprouts butterflies
in the belly. The
poem must grow
aware of each
titillating tactic,
the poem is never
alone, but
average, already
almost always
acclimated to
allusion, another
illusion, a rip-off,
a planned
collision, needing
one hopes,
concerted
collusion. How
alliterate can be
the illiterate? A
hole, a-hole! A
whole "aw! Hole!"
But this time
Doja Cat,
our very own
damsel
of distress,
signaling the
department of
defense to wonder
who the fuck is
DOD?
