Boy bands in sourer times conceived on their fly shit
The bill-fold of Holy Writ with sex tapes
That fattened jealous pockets and Trapper Keepers,
The patterned flatulence, of balding monkeys.
Insane: why would you purchase it if it's free?
It's been a hundred years since then and warm as fresh milk.
Raping his inspiration for $300 and some baby oil,
You're in it with native pornography.
--My face is a hole and stratigraphy
Lines it up and sleeps impersonally;
No shit plasters the walls of that boring office.
Ugh! Hang money! Then shout to burned statues
In the living rooms of my teen memories,
“The masturbator, my hands; the love, my eyes!”
After Baudelaire's “Le Mauvais Moine”