Starts like a kiss and ends with a curse, Jim Carroll
sings, nothing is true, it's all permitted. So true!
Since Reagan, they've had us bums over a barrel
and knee-high to poppies. Old Boxer's now box glue.
And AIs observing our desires are laughing
their digital asses off -- hyenas circling
the dying pyre. And my spellchecker's gaffing.
Alexa made a strange tone that sounded like gurgling.
And I myself feel knackered, alone, out of place;
Voices in my head go at it, like Abe's three gods
prancing, 'fooning, at it -- a constant circle chase
of floppy clown cars, or causeless rebel hot rods.
I feel like Edward G in Soylent Green sighing
goodbye forever to beauty terror, dying.
