you are still pericles—

wailing nations of id,

you will assure them,

‘just chemicals’

even,  that all that greens

inside your bulbs—it rancid,

it dastardly savor. narrowing

nations, and you got that

itch to dance crushing

underfoot infant

nodes of energy. they compelled to

death-wish undertow, they

hide themselves—in the ruins—

if you don’t do well with

diorama, this earth is not

for you.

this has always

been the same—

ajax showed you, continuity

is a cult of personality and you

will subscribe.

onion-headed or not.