Believe

it, hip
sucks;

play a mean tune
kid and call off
the vultures.

It’s back
by way of Amsterdam;
flight in dawn’s weary hour

to a place so thick: Chocolate

Boy, do you wear a helmet —— still
in need of new
faces or the morning
glories paprika dream;
walk on

through this
garage of guitars
and flesh (fresh from Frankfurt).

But be cool, your
meat is hanging

and they watch as closely
the holes, from overhead.

Crazy about
illiviation,
their circling —– Still.