Von Neumann in the Sheets

two figures alone stand in the square
their eyes hooded by lowered brows
in shade the audience gathers there
as windy strains of music grow
pulse insistent starts the fair
the pair dance until the sun sinks low
that heatwave summer by the gallows



resolution and fidelity
become unfocused when they get low
but when they fail they simply serve
betrayal à la mode


A puss is sleeping on our tit
her name is Izzabekkel
she a grey floofy little shit
with very long whiskers (snakefreckles!)


crisp and savage fleshy beast far from lean
twisted, strange-articulate but you would be mean
if you'd seen where we've been
through many different hells, at least seventeen
our shoebox is in the closet with Sister Death's rags of green