Mars Holds No Promise

some born from cold, dark Fusion some born in Black light

boys and girls play in traffic— their games offend pedestrians & motorists alike— but now they’re blowing holes through ’em and it’s for keeps— their heated competitions revving up to smear pavements— their pissing matches mark Territories

silent where there should be screaming

Malevolent ‘Teachers’ failed in their venal tactics— to build this unhinged community that fabled intravenous ladder to the heavens— but it’s ok– because we’ve all been a little disoriented
by one self-inflicted collapse after another


mars no longer holds promise

their only recourse is to wreak havoc— here and now— with killer wardrobes polluting the expanses with paisley pukes cursing into nihil gurgle-huff-laughing Chemgasses passing through swole Hollywood lips or yeast barmed chutes and bladders

all day night sing cry howl in the Black light in the ice-cold Fusion at the bottom of this bowl

do sing day night

go to work now

Pleasure’s rising still

Pleasure’s on the rise

Ernie & Darren, oil on mirror, 1995 copyright GPD

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