I’ve got, as is known, a crass ass; as storms

begetting storms tend to bend. I triage,

I dig tongues out of the air, wretched worms,

wretched words, all squiggle-palm. A mélange

of “what’s all this, then?” Not all words can love.

The ones that do I mix myth with dick-shticks,

sick-gyve, jive tics… as in, the twitch above

my eye (pure sign of evil). Got my Nix-

fix. Got my Hex-sex that wrecks. Call me Nurse

Ratched, baby pops. I *am* the Combine’s

bolt-nuts; what The Matrix’s naughty parts

begot. What’s all this, then? Call it my curse.

You’re crass? Crass with great ass. Do I malign

myself? I thumbs. I stars. I likes. I hearts.