RIOT AT 111 STATION

          If I lose my temper you’re totalled.
          Sallow trays of disgenerate plush, flushing
          the balcony of derision, conviction’s
          tumor.  Lost my glasses
          flashes.  As might
          incense a prod, wherever it
          clogs.  Suddenly
          distends into arced, incoordinate
          future frisson.
          Mongrel angle detoured, brulant
          and trampled, of volutuality manque
          “as nauseous and tedious as adultery in literature”.
          The brick that broke the camel’s sap. Fit to be
          frenzied (funny you don’t look
          tumescent).  Fat Boy’s famous
          Jew-Punching Contest (“NO
          CREDIT REJECTS HERE”).
          As benefits bereavement
          in whom return might anchor.

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