You are two oranges shy of sangria You chumpchange in a clackdish You the flensed soldier, egg-runny on the inside You frogging deadline after deadline You caught in a Swiss chokehold You feeding the duckboards of Venice You the expert on television newswar You at maximum voice You the squaw above dead deerling You the clarion-call of the id You the barbaros of Juarez You who want to wake up forever You on page 65 in bubblegum PVC You yelling at the meathook You yet to make your wheelspin mark You clapping at family stones You who would rather be scalped standing You as screw of the week You eiderhanded as a spider You in the stocks and wanting it more You salted for planet jellyfish You among the angels crisp as butcherpaper You scissorless, cutting the line to ribbons You the livid escarp You the apostle of gutlove You with a black and fraying candlestick You hard to prove but terminally alluring You an owl away from the topmost branch You mad as a star You who would shoot first