Why don’t you look outside?
My fat young bride.
Your breath is death,
Must you breathe so rapidly?
An altar of light – whachama call it?
I call to it when I’m inside
Your hide under the ceiling fan
Which twirls on the oblivion’s nipple.
Five friars farting in the crossing,
Zed, zed hits me on the head
And I make my stand
Against my pituitary gland
And mumble to the marriage manufacturer
That a ring round enough for her
Fat finger could only be oiled
With an earth-sized olive, olé.