Cold a welt, we are tired
are stately are manic and morose
all at once in the morning light,
below 40 below the sky below the bellowing
highway along the interstate.
Make my fingers happen!
Enough with the table settings.
Fuck you, made bed.
We are terrific are bellicose and standing
what nakedly what enchantedly
bed to bed to bed like heads—
mansion this to anyone
and you got much lumber
to contend with to formulate
for the ambulance. Ack! Ack! Ack!
Deconstruct the making.
We are bed-lords are lip-lords
are three hundred blow-jobs
in the cold, the cold a bruise—
are black-and-blue are yellow-and-blue
are tender are money-blue
asking the morning for just one more.