Aug 212011
 
One grows tired of the infantile,
The tamely true, the tritely right.

One would rather a slap in the chops,
An angry onion intensely teared,

A uterine wrong belatedly revealed
Among candles at the retirement home--

An explosion under the tea-cozies.
Anything, oh anything, mein Gott!

Anything but this maundering usual,
This placid sunshine square on the floor,

This tepid, interminable sequence
Of will-be, was, and serenely is.

Let some black lightning fork to earth
That leaves the sky more mortal, torn.

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