The sounds piling up in my shirt sleeves bother the demon in my bed.

He was swimming in this sea of words like an airplane too heavy for flight.

I received in the mail a taste for very hot mustard,

And it was implicit in the accompanying letter that the desire for more would never be torn out of me.

Sometimes love hides beneath the great skirts of Art

Taking the form of a sleeping blue woman,

And between her spread apart pretexts a cursing duck

Dresses my lever in a flaming post office.

The volts that run through my loins as I look upon the loins of the Lord:

Like taking Haldol and spilling hot tea on my pants. O million

Planes of the enemy, in favor of keeping dry words together

And throwing them in my eyes, full of confusion

From soldiers and their sweethearts, open green blessings

And the bloody clothes of La Destruction!