Backwash
the last seven hundred days
Slosh
that deadly sauce
And
superstitiously set it to song
A
canticle of darkest green
Which
means envy
which
means mean
Buy
and bye that agony juice
A
coupon for your horn-rimmed youth
In
a banshee bottle be
She
will sit, she will slam
To
be let free
Set
down the hammer
Friday
and Saturday sundown
Sitting
Without
the strength for TV
And
harsh happiness scant
You
float in fever, blurred and cracked
Half-hour,
half-hour
Of
sore pleasures and only
As
you wonder
Is
this what I thought it would be?
Is
she?
Let
girl gamma be the cloying rattle
Just
a phone call away
Wait
until she removes her face
and
sandbags sand
Unforgivably
This
store-brand golem
Pitters
for a song
Three-thirty,
dressed to spread
Only
saddens the nibble
Only
tightens
the
bottleneck
Sing
the canticle to the cat
He
can give you sleepy sorries
He
can grant a post-war wish
Else
be a capable rug
But
not, alas, a drug
Oh
she. Small as a dot
Floating
in backwash
Large
as every taste
And
God, won't go away
Lap
and sip, dive and dip
Regress,
drain
Erase