In the massacre of mustard and roses,
A frivolous poster, a picture do tell,
A shriveled homunculus poses.
Of lines and larders; a dirge, bells.

By the bay window in gathering gloom,
Entrenched in ripe babies three gallons deep,
Grappling for meaning in a reasonless room.
I stumble in sanctity, an empty weep.

Did you know, in a Hemingway pysche
That the ink and spill in your credulous privates,
The eternal cavity you swath worthy of Nike,
Could be in honesty, kits and bits

of gassed Jew fat,
Dripping… pit pat.