To Alice With Love And Consternation

Dead dove

 

The borogoves, these days, do not mimsy as before.

They murmur minor schoolups into turdig flagellations,

Sympathize in slime and writhe insanely on the floor.

To comfort them with oyster juice is disperdesperate

As whirldly wisdoms dissipate in mists of musts to ignore

Their whistlescream in squeaky gusts that vomits only wild disgusts.

This astrocomic quabble never stops its bismarkbutchery

And soon there will become fragments of dust one can’t restore.

 

Terrors out of errors scribble bloodmark comments on my knees

While the clumsy mimsy dumbsies, hoarse and most conflictulate,

Extrude their tenfoot tongues to lick their ears and gently squeeze

What lies beneath their lies to turn excrement into Swiss cheese.

Thereby the forests fall, the deserts granulate their fate to instigate

Seas of sand to seize, command tsunamic desiccation, dusty castigation.

Doves and gloves, cats and hats and bats will strew a landscape bereft

Of possibility, habitability, where humanity has sinned and leaves

The ragged green of dollar bills fluttering amongst dried and broken leaves.

 

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