I remember those poets
And their fervent love for typewriter summaries,
Little cut-outs typefaces and such,
Signed with lush aliases and tiny black hearts.
One last rush for some academic honesty,
Little typos too for golden realness,
Some marvelous subterfuge.
One must admire this fancy
with some overt scorn and salt.
You cannot write,
Of things you have not fingered in the dark,
Or tasted, or killed by hand, or died well from,
It is futile, you see,
Piss on the sun and all.
Clippings of their infection spread fast online,
For mass hypnosis,
and it works like juju.
We are all amply fucked,
as the saying goes.