nineteen
made it to nineteen
we count the isles of words
cavort in the numerical
like the kiddies with pebbles
ready to throw at bottles
we refuse to hunt for an allusion
or reference to 19
taking together a stance
against information that
sluttishly splashes on the screen
in its stead
on the bow
of the junk
we bond
in our determination
to be chimerical
to cock a snoot at the Empire
of the capital
to the conniving inhabitants
of the Off-shore accounts
peopled by fine interpretations
of the tax return
through the loop-holes
vast caravans of camel
lumber through, carrying
Byzantine weights
of treasure,
into the optic cables
from the four corners
of this planet's
geography,
we, that's me, and Hart,
in a ungrammatical combine,
seek to throw our pebbles
at these creatures of comfort
that lounge in luxuriousness
of unconscionable wealth
which we would with the sport
of the Jacobean, inflate to Godzilla
proportion, these wallowing
beasts, await the caravan
as it follows the Cyber Road
to arrive on isles, where yachts
cruise in sexy sleekiness, cutting
through injunctions, investigations,
through the Law, as in Philadelphia
Story says Katherine H, it is yar, yar
yar, and Hart and I, on board our
junk, think, oh it would be funnier
if
nobody was left unfed
Now we set sail for TWENTY
hoping, in a Swinburnian fashion, nobody
expects us to visit the LAND of PLENTY!
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