The moon, a little bag of death, shakes shit within itself above a tree: a Spanish-rhythmed slog with every breath insults the intellect, and me.
Now, in a ferment smug and pure, this single buttock germinates and bursts, spilling a hate jazz out along the sewer of light, to taunt the common thirsts.
It's time now for a job of talk. Why don't they fuck and bugger on the floor? I came in case they did, so I could gawk, and it is what they came here for.
-- June 1965, but a remembrance of undergraduate mixer dances in the 1950s