Paste Land

You could shoot yourself, but ice cream
and where you’ve been. How has anyone owned a gun?
Come on, you fucks—force it: in the jungle I was more than a self;
I was aboard deep experience and feeling and shelter and terror and

there was a danger where I was. Speak. Speak!
You will not go near the rind of this condition—you are weak.
I saw how you looked at each of them in the aisle, sick
with pulling flesh and every inch of bashed heads. Eat

nothing and see how it is: the critic will taste not too, his lights off
while you crawl out from under the bed, his wife
covered in drool. Walk around on all fours, you pig:
that’s how we used to live. You cannot move for a bottle—

choke on ideological workings: bogus choice.
A flick of thigh hair.