The intimacy of the barber,
Blood-letter of the bladed age.
Until the scourge upon the earth
Becomes the dirge within your bed
Alms for the poor
Palms at your door
The Sapphic urge plastered across the broadsheets
Laid under iambic kitty-litter.
Fronds. What a silly word
For a thing so serious as the footfall of Para-Brahma.
Fat-cat capitalists and champagne socialists
Shitting in the bed they’ve made. And. Lying. In. it.
Well, that escalated quickly!
Recursion’s a bitch, innit?