XI


Twizzling little tickling twinkles
splash individual fare on the clowns
falling all over 18th street,
Sunday after the hourless
Friday-Saturday conundrum
where teeth gnashed in pleasure
and trumpets blared
the anthem of the Bohemian state of mind.
Forty-eight ticks left the weekend
scratching its head and biding its time
until the wrecks emerge from the wainscoting
to lap up the Billy Baroo kind of obsolescence
planned for the children they’ll only have
once this planet has been assured of its safety.

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