You slang-along among the bones
while HUMP’s just dangling
in the atmospheric flux.
You ritz, you dirge;
such infectious musics must serve
whoever cares who bleeds, a tax on it,
whoever cares who cares, an intergenerational tax
on the reverb.
HUMP says I’m not messing with you,
to be beaten
in my first best bluest dress
—all at once to burst into flame—to pre-empt return,
to return to mangle…..instant moksha! friends
Then you’d see! Inside HUMP, what palpables!
What oily spillages of nirvana!
What jalebi-shakarkandi capers! What mounds of munificent puffed rice!
What piles! What goldleaf piles! of HUMP
what chance alarms, what voodoo karma,
what pretty larva, what sticky worms
of corpse data, what candied organs
tucked up her speedos, what libidos,
of macho spam, what stank, what mucho stank,
what tantric pyre-hiss whore-flames
what frantic supplements, what Ayurvedic
herbal ooze, what blues, what rage,
what lewd explosives,
unheard of moves. What
mosquitoes, what jets
of ones and zeros.