Write Your Congress, Man

Postmodern prostitute,
lift your gaze
your navel will not move,
your navy should not move.
The haze is heavy,
the levee breaks,
sunburn in January
snowstorm in April
hurricane in June;
even Shaghair will wish
it was 1750 soon.
Don’t despair
despite the
nuclear winter of our discontent
that looms;
we can weave a different cloth
with psychedelic blooms.
But feel me:
someone’s got to tell him no,
and we need help, it’s true.
You should question everything,
as long as you can answer
me too.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s