Old Castle-Plesantsville-Newcastle-Mount Pleasant.
Disghastly.
I met him in Ashville, I blamed him on weather,
a day in Ashville, an autumn in Ulan-Bator,
anywhere you go, that’s where the track runs,
have you ever been there?
I have barely been, and thus I can imagine.
John Johnson, a representative of a fallout of a nuclear family,
somebody s father and somebody s son. Bald.
A wretch by his own testimony.
A tall man in most cases, kept his hands
well versed in pleasure.
John, a calcified fruit of the womb.
The old man Johnson never showed horripilation, was took with hiccups,
and, one night, was taken to a hospital, where he was dead
and the young Johnson became the old Johnson instead.
Under a blacklight that an intern put in at the morgue,
the late old man Johnson s pants looked like the sky
over Comfort, TX.
And this will be your last and only warning:
when the warranty on children runs out (soon)
they will need mental coverage and breath insurance
they will crave a cemetery retirement plot of their own,
won t you start a hair savings fund, and think on this story
that have been somewhat carelessly folded,
a cringing appliance to your attention.
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