i is an / ugh it’s an ignoramus

       jamais jamais u say / or maybe nether nether

              its inland sequel is counting on this Eur

optic allusion to echo it &/ or braise it w/

       outsourcery in terror pots of ennui & rain

              flowers overtly peer out

no less ensorcelled than stoner food

              so naturally some cat
whose deputy moi disappoints

       is appointed montage

              & the relevant delusion is a man w/ money

& ici an aussi trysting the rules

       that like a tonne of organic eclairs

              drape a new noir across the Bois-like lures

i’ll pass on the pas des deux thanx

              get to the point 
that our swords had a tang & whereas o

       & u caressed me w/ red tape

              worms castigated

our puerile & futile violence toward the budding

       bourgy eggheads burgeoned & now

              log on to download God from the bots

i dance on the verge of & purity deserts

              time lore & legislation 
deploying a Leunig moon

       night unshackles

              dense with chaos & glass above the hotel’s pole

fat spleen bats careen about

       a party rented out by a billion celebs

              channelled through cathodes to audit each

Everest movie premiere in which Madame

              XXX turns tables on a P&O
coming down from the Alps i clock out

       from the party but land on its feet & like another

              glib latency we did

pirouettes for cock & held a tournament

       our comprehension of bras was

              so hammed up a unicorn in denial of plaques

flogged the place & although rustling

              infants regarded this 
mauve imagery as a great maze of in vitro

       in a coruscating vein today

              fumes w/ magazines that mate

& guesstimate like machine guns as to why why

       why do bats on castor

              sugar always sing in technicolour

a cirque de slander let’s elope

              my funnel webs my blemishes 
we’ll sing chez Bluebeard’s at the abbatoirs

       taking pot-shots at Targét

              at the haughty few who suck back the gravity

of long tirades & bark in voices

       our settler mess ruing the grand

              spent at the sales

where flowers retrograde queerly

              mercurially déjà  
voodoo & u who peer at my cash my

       precious poor lark’ll hit the ceiling we’ll traverse

              toilets dissing the clock

wise anti-delirium & go back

       Down Under where the rest sank Freud

              après the ludic deluge

ici aussi

              totes


(‘After the Orgy’  is an inversion of Rimbaud’s Après le Déluge)