Harangued around by dashing collar,
with plastic tie, with warm confidence
Receipt present, a cool reception
questionable, if iffy.
Hardly heard weakened strains
of ‘Tomorrow, Wendy’,
unlisted yet, still–motion, intravenous
the dozing, dirty Santa Monica blonde,
whenever euphemized as Hades-
Gehenna crowned; The reel nicked up,
bits yellower, fractured bicuspid
returns mislaid to early dawn,
marketable, meatless, searingly perpetual,
The New New American Low—.