The Exalt Complacence

A river runs through my ass,
a ball of worlds.

Pissing and shitting,
a Neanderthal of time.

A ball of worlds. The owner of words.

Perhaps a turd.

An invitation to intellectualism.

A turd. A toilet.

A turd and a toilet,
I dig for survivors.

In the face of things
I again survive,

even watch the sunrise,
my farthest Laura of the Petrarch.

The intellectualism hast not survived,
I am Son of Man.

Amended. Amended.
A toilet. A toilet.

– from Antipoémus

Off The Farm

When I am old,
hysterical and worn out,
running from the farm,

just shoot me in the head.

Don’t let me get off the farm.

When you’re done with the shooting of me
in the head
shoot me in the throat
to stop my soul.

Have a dinner for me that night,
back on the farm,
with red wine, root vegetables
and some type of roasted pheasant.

Don’t let me get off the farm,
even if you have to throw rocks
on my chest
to keep the gravity held down and balanced.
Don’t let me get off the farm.

The gravity and the farm are old friends,
synonymous in a way with each other.

Gravity’s high-volume generation farm
exists in the asteroid fields just beyond Mars.

DO
NOT
LET ME
GET THAT FAR
in the symbolism of intellectualism.