for Sebastian Wai


I think you may be right, and what alarms

me the most is the mental detritus, plaque,

uncertainty and strangeness as it occurs to me,

that a dictator might just be a tuberous gumshoe,

the deftest angler still has yet to masturbate,

and it can be fatuous to collect such obese pronouns.


House, flat, domicile and apartment are homeward,

philandering psychics are nothing if not sincere.


Please save me from this pit of disease called sarcasm,

but if you hate this type of wordplay,

prepare for more punishment in the coming days.


It just keeps going on, steelies and pebbles,

and does the fact that all of this rattling is here

while I idly hope for reason make me an asshole,

or might it one day be the key to making

my rectum one with the jagged stitches of nirvana?