Venus & Jupiter Are Messing With Us, Again

Venus & Jupiter Are Messing With Us, Again

Meanwhile,

this cinematographer large, him needs him busted 24/7
and fingers his blue notes, fingering all him days
a very precise Triassic analysis,

to wit:

that the Earth-cue roams untethered
across the black baize universe
re-enacting scenes from
Billy the Kid & the Green Baize Vampire
while us mortals sift insidious input,
fodder for the likely press release,
breaking news of death among the
soixante-huitards hurling pavés,
flat, hard breadstones, while musing
not how the Earth orbits out of control.

And him says we’re likely dead
in the last 215 million years or so,
dead when dinosaurs demonstrated,
in mostly Petri-fried greenhouses,
while declaiming to the masses
particulars that the green gasses
of geological centuries
lead to swings rather than changes
while citing what they lacked,
relatively speaking.

O it was such a climate cycle,

it was a time
to tell of slights we experience,
blue ego-warts and all
that we’re releasing,
not to forget the effects of
The Flexible Giant,
that out of print, bankrupt Gospel

(the lurking text denied by Them).

So can you keep in mind
that sexual repression
ebbs and flares
according to its greater poetry?

Meanwhile,

Him draws him’s buxom figure,
him’s veined nose,
and gargoyle tongue, him
sitting in your parlor
with a naked paleontologist

eating at his table
(a table not easy to digest, either!)
spread with denunciatory falsehoods
about Triassic As and Es.

So can you keep in mind the lost
days when fear and respect
oozed from dated cores in Inderstan
while him was seeking kinder gartens
to promote com
plete sexual falsehoods?

Oh “forget it” would be required,
with footnotes numerous,
even to learn the pure basics
of lotus seat-resting
and the falsehood
of dinosaurs pissing
in the Arizona Petrified Forest National Park,

Yeah, that’s right,
and don’t you forget it

Meanshile,
forgo not the sexual enjoyment
predicted by Sir Richard,
you wit, forget
cash cows causing climate disruptions
inscribed on flayed skin by skinny monks
(oh, so deliberately, them’s
ink-tainted fingernails
a-clacking the Light Farntastick Mean)

while oh, the immense
the hardbound
Bodhisattva-dictated
tomes,

tomes viewed as a prodigious brain
conning the Light Fascina,
and don’t you forget it,
you’re gonna Karma your Sutra
right on outa here,
don’t you forget it—

Oh, and another sincerity
you don’t want to forfend:

According to a dog-sick palentologist
seated in the box seats arfin sonnets
and other nasty odes
to mountings pressed on bronze hands
nestled deep in the pine-scented sand
of Tantric Iconographs,

to wit:

we is fucked, broz & sisses,
we facing the generic facts
presented on a geologic
limeline marking out the grid
and deline-ing the equator,
that euphoric space
between home plate and first,
whomever may be there—
on first, that is, the base
I mean—slinging
an orbit out into the into,
the turbid aquifer,
Bayou La Battre,
yes, and
slinging datums
from Venus and Jupiter
who are messing with us
again,

oh.

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