Lies in wait—
bacon cheese sandwich,
growing cold.

Its owner,
hungry, only sleeps.

Yes, I have the sadness,

‘side my flavorless tea & headache cheese crackers;

but it’s not the sadness I had before,

& that’s what most matters.

That was left on the gray beaches o’ summer chills,

wandering & pretending I was knowing & did science,

when nobody invited me to be taught to grow gills.

I’m still waiting for die Tagssonne

to stretch my seed’s boughs.

& this time the point won’t miss its rows.

Just look @ where the sluggish storms sleep now:

when life gifts you oranges,

Mike’s soft bottles don’t e’en crack skulls beyond sore fringes.

Leave me in stitches—p l e a s e.

but I saw
you, flesh-shelled crab… Please.
Keep scuttling.

Not e’en spring—
a thousand parked cars;
lonely nights.

…it’s the work I put into it.

…it’s the money I get for it.

…it’s the money I pay for it.

…it’s all ’bout the results.

…it’s the thought that counts.

…it can’t just come from nothing.

…it’s all within me.

…it’s what I don’t already have.

…it comes from mass production.

…it 1 o’ a kind.

…it’s decided by the buyer.

…it’s decided by the seller.

…it’s decided by everyone.

…it’s decided by no one.

…it’s what I say.

…it’s what the market says.

…it’s what the law says.

…it’s what the public says.

…it’s what the experts say.

…it’s subjective,

but can be objectively measured by math & stats.

…it’s independent o’ labor,

but if we don’t reward those who work to make it,

we won’t have ‘nough;

& we don’t know who works to make it,

’cause we haven’t found out what it is.

…it’s everything,

& is nothing.

A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar,

& after chugging 20 KG o’ ale,

the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour.

‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine

& says to the Marxist,

“I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee.

Since it clearly has labor,

you must be willing to offer a price for it.”

Unperturbed by this fellow’s strawman argument,

the Marxist replies stoically,

“$5.”

The Austrian-schooler can only wince & take a few subtle steps backward.

“W-what? Why would you want my pee?”

The Marxist straightens himself.

“Why are you so nosy into my subjective wants?

Have I not a right as any other to buy whatever I want with my own money?”

So the Marxist bought the pee & huffed it late @ home;

& he proved to the Austrian-schooler

that in a world wherein feces splattered on canvasses are considered high art,

all work, no matter how insipid, can hold value.

Thus, this proves that not only will capitalism inevitably fall,

but that it’s already fallen,

& has simply been replaced by dapitalism,

which is its cousin,

distinguished only by its bowler & handlebar moustache.

That is the only god.

Accept no substitutes.

Also, mud pies are quite useful, you fools:

I eat them all o’ the time.

They are the tastiest o’ chocolate pies.

People who do not enjoy the scrumptiousness o’ chocolate pies

must be eliminated.

Thus decree the scrolls o’ the Engelsist Order o’ the Red Star.

¿Dónde está la luna?

Debiste mirarla cuando puedas.

Está leja para siempre y no regresará nunca.

¿Where’s the moon?

You should’ve watched it when you could.

It’s gone ‘way fore’er & will ne’er come back.

& all the pulsing itchiness—

No, I speak not o’ those moldy hinges

on which your spoilt rattling paint cans grip.

I speak o’ mo’:

a rainbow jungle

whose palms o’erbrimmed with crisp crisps—

that’s how I spelt it; it’s Britican without the sharp-edged can openers.

You think salt water can’t be fresh.

You think the sea salt ruins warm brownies.

¡Fool!

¡Buffoon!

¡Ignoramus!

¡Fuck-cunter!

If you’d take 1 tiny break from all your fuck-cunting,

you could peel open the apple

or crunch into the grape.

But if I keep eating potato after potato,

I’ll ne’er stop,

& I’ll ne’er get round to feeding,

& famish.

So we must roll up our bags,

slap the grit into our knuckle wrinkles,