msogynist

tired, ineffectual, the firm profits despite

your casual lacerations, frustrating the personal assistants

charged with facilitating the greater glory.

outside, like a camera trick or a game played

with real money, vertigo tickles your middle ear,

compartmentalised as any ocean liner, rms

pedantic for instance, reconfiguring the heart

& the bicycle of the heart then arbitrarily changing shoes.

how come the fucking microfascists & white supremacists

are the only people getting things done? them & very

best cold transport, you study the vedas & buy

an expensive ford – the indices burst with gladness

& bestow a leaf motif, carefully matching your

socks with the kanji for clueless, lifting weights

for hours amid the effortless scorn of the fit & the thin