Fuck Armageddon. The cops get it on. Writhing and fucking dead on top of the poems, who redden. The poems blush their own blood into Messolonghi Street. The poems: fulsome plankton. Blenderized in the French-kissing maws of the armored Megalodon-shark policemen. Who has his head so far up his asshole the police can’t even fit an arm in there? Prenteri! The Captain of T.V.! Tarry, Prenteri, with smile unscary! Come visit Messolonghi! They murder in broad daylight here—(you should be so lucky!) Junta: army in the streets. Toy boots on every Caligula kiddy’s feet. Mobsters larding the laws to pure porkfat—no bone, no meat. The labor is sleepily grunting in their pens: doing Miley Mohawks and Masturbating to the QVC T.V. gems. Our youth are milk powder when I fucking asked for cayenne. The rebels are truncheoned by the Megalodon policemen. The leopards are caged like KFC hens. And the poets? The poets are quiet again. Messolonghi Street: silent as Danny Boy’s Glenn. Fuck off, flower poets. Fragile as your amaryllis. Blinding and bloating yourself with silk: constantly eating and shitting a chrysalis. The doddering leftists toast with milk the stinking rats on the sinking Samina, who flee too fast to let the cheese curdle. My words are Fayadeen: verbal, fatal, fertile—where will you be when the blood begins to burble?
Translated by Max Ritvo