sanity skids
Edward Mycue
ON ITS LAURELS, IS ALL COCK AND CANDYFLOSS. LIFE'S SACCHARIN
AND ROSES SMELL JUST MORE SOMETHING THAN NOTHING NOT SO SWEET.
Car thefts, make-up, cellular phones make the news; but beggars
are bone-thin, diseased; and phamtom hair itches where hair was
Ğ like the amputated little finger, but not like the radio-phone
stolen from the ToyotaĞand all this time fate is sillily lurking
under the rose bush in the form of a bent, used hypodermic needle
wrapped in a newspaper like some pi–ata paper-balloon surrounding
a virus hand-grenade the way a thin paper crust surrounds a core
(an electronic interface you read the data on) Ğlike phantom
memory patterns once stored in huge computer databanks now redcut
and reduced to one small chip, a grain, or phantom follicle of
HAIR. SO GET WASHED YOU BLIND, HANDSOME CITY. PREPARE FOR YOUR
TEMPLE SPRUNG UP FROM THE RUINS OF ANGER LESS ELOQUENT THAN SKIN.
