Selections from The Trouble with Humpadori

HUMP’S AUTOPSY

You slang-along among the bones
as hanger-ons
or worse—

 

while HUMP’s just dangling

in the atmospheric flux.

 

You ritz, you dirge;

such infectious musics must serve
some purpose:

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,

I’d love
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,
what jisms

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.

 

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