There’s nothing to hold

in this dark country. Cold and old.

I sold

my soul to the fast-food devil and

made it down the street to McDonald’s

in time for breakfast.

40 cents for ketchup;

I eat my hashbrowns naked in the sleeve,

alone. All the faces greasy in their sleeves.

Everyone wants the answers to their questions:

“Ce que je voudrais des frites avec ça?”

(Not if I have to pay for ketchup, sac-de-douche!)

Are we all here all self-destructive?

Maybe the fast food devil is the other one, too.

___________

My knuckles hurt from:

– A glass wall of a bank

– Ketchup boxes

– Mailboxes and bus poles

The newer pain should help dull the old?

Unless the same bloody spot is smashed,

ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE!

     One more bow,

     Makes eight,

     Turn the 8,

     Makes infinity,

     Spin the infinity,

     Turns into a lizard,

     Eating its tail.

À plus tard, Alligator!

À plus tard, A..lli…

___________

If you punch Catsup it looks like blood.

If you punch it hard enough it is.