The nitrous cloud goes berserk
In the nineteenth century, when the toads
Were writers thinking up Horror—she wounds me
With her pale skin and liquid midsection,
Scarcity is scarce, and I take it from there, holding gripes,
The papers tell it, how the Pope goes pop
Into a new old castle and the people go people.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, going pee
Nothing happens and nothing again
Happens, and I think this is the emptiness
The atheists speak of, the mirror on the wall
Has no power to come alive and the oranges
Sitting on the kitchen table are black objects
With no goal but to rot.