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