Take this poem and banish it from my sight


Those hurt faces want to be spiked unconditionally.
They have been duped by sightseers. Well-dressed
people do not walk the streets & are not susceptible
to the charms of our metropolis. The people grow taller
every year, without the old vices that once rendered
them decent. I am attaching a bird's head with two
slow turns of the neck, spork swallowing spork
as the ground fog passes.