Beatnik elves

moon unlikely (given you breath)
actors are, yes, authors battered
wounded by the large peaks
tied by the horns, wailing
snakes among you scurry
on false ceilings without foundation
bravo stream pouring chest
thunder-like liquid

impact and tension dress in velvet
words do not leave a bunch of people unemployed
a number of rattles, including criminal laughter
mixed results if you have a minute
in addition to the creator of the citizens
winners and losers get their foot in their urine
kings’ money, we have
but you do not exist in our accounting

and if the dome would sleep hungry
these tiny organisms
flashing powerful in their midst would spill
aortas and ventriloquists’ dynamos
thin, crooked bones
with guests raging treacherous
cracking under the weight corridors
curtailing dwarfs, prostitutes and fish

wanting to practice corners
with the prosthesis of the gods with
their straw murmurs
step ahead of our night guards
also thanks and moths
giving the guts to race panic
intestinal mausoleum
gargoyle mobs quickly adjusting the salt-

stench in the square of the seagull idiot
its sulfur sticks to pitch the cry forth cringing air
parishioners filled with the months of garbage
in the clay of the hairless blankets
numb grapefruit and banana
marching on the morning of the gods stripped
skinny eternal will of breath
not for the punishment (of winter) or anything

burst of sleep at least thought
dredging of orchids and unconscious minds
harbinger of clamor on camera up flourishing
prohibited apologize hunger
recording spots in the cave of the future
riveting the stone with the long-lost fire
weight of smoke, anointed
bleeding from the magma to the prehistory

are Cartesian, yes, Silesian
moon tricked us all with a bevel
and a dark sky, a colander inverted
through which the neon light
horrible in the kitchen, nobody
has dared to change it since ninety-five
and two-truths fucking cold and skinned
cannot take life (to be or not to be) so

uncomfortable with this style
between legs of a bitch looks of a port
roll of feces and the thrill-
twisted premiere week
boring eyelids with eyelashes out
double surprise, turn the poll
so intimate core madness
fear its distribution among mammals

then hurts below the ribs
swelling is like a glowing, a-glowin’
though, of course, any whippersnapper
with the ingestion of jimson-weed, or other crap
gathering at the clutches of death
in the lens, advertising on equal rights
hath the rest of beatnik elves extinguish burning
(this case was removed to protect the defendant)