ROBERT MORON MOVES ON
Favorite items like a hot-dog
tie or playing miniature golf
at some pierside slide, all those
things go into the make-up of
a twentieth-century guy, but
they're not any more. They've
now buried the past in the
gauze of the new: falconette
ladies in underwear; topsider
men and baggy-pants duos are
like snakes with red eyes, all
walking the walks, while their
centers are filled with despise.
-
I hate the modern and would
whittle a shiv to stab to death,
yes. My prison tattoo, set right
to their head : who is that guy
coming at me now? He moves
as sideways in a flash as he does
straightforward in a dash. Come,
come, Robert Moron, move on.
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