In The Bioburbs

Under the hood, the coldwater pump

Lets the Monkey angels get us sick,

Our flying flees and millipedes

Read our white count

And screen for the bug

The old fashioned physician treated bumps and bruises

Not hungry with tube feeding,

But the new slumber party

Cancer can't keep its solids down



We watch saints of popularity, rail thin snack on their Hollow legs.

The hairless pairs of replicas dance and gossip,

While at their feet are fighting fish,

The upper half is pressing

Flesh-some compaign of the neurotic black heart,

A vomit Competition.

The autograph is a lap dance from the grammaphone No one will touch

Their priorities bruised, and without memory

They had to start turning away the ghosts

Of ignored parents like the old men who work the vending machines

Who've only asked to use the toilet



Plastic dresses ath the biotech frontier tonight,

The pigeons are Continuous, their feathers burn toxic.

The medicine animal is A misfit to the drum,

Desperate to duplicate the whimper like a snapshot.

Genetic jennies sip white zin and choose wallpaper

For the first boy crossbred with a sneaker's new nursery,

To sit Amidst change, a speak 'n' spell in his heart,

Soon pacemakers Will be able to run for president,

Or any creature with the proper papers,

Until Detroit machinists, our laureates of the chariot...

Jesus Chrysler, cut me a break,

Lay off the feelings and the spiders in the sink

And leave a depression in the wild,

A missing man without A car alarm

Stuck in his knee or a pager in his palm.