The licorice off Larry Rivers's curving penis
brought them, gilded and flouncing,
to the rusted crushed barn building
that sat on a permanent lean into the wind,
a surly remnant of woodrot irony.
A billion neurons leaping at the chance
to fling their delicate moisture shapes,
more spun than atomic bass
and rancid like the neighbourhood carcass,
into another of Curtis's silly anthologies of guilt.
It was SJP, it was JEW, it was ATL
off the radio, stuttering to life,
anguish of being known toward knowing
that finite icicle of breath,
pissed off at nothing in particular but pissed off.