well look who's here

 

pissed again I failed to see

death and her maggots

pull into the driveway

pissed — as in……

 

being slowly converted into a painting

by David Hockney

of lapdogs or a canyon

better than being plastered……

 

up a long last judgement

to balefully eyeball forever

tourists and cardinals

in a tomb that's open all hours……

 

so death sat in her can

and lisped into the radio

recurrent affairs preprogrammed since

the dawn of remember when……

 

maggots consumed her soft

interior she smiled

that ambiguous hi that famous come on

come on over……

 

through the tough glass the opening in the wall

into the next valley

where the silence

blows