I grimace at the old crusty label, All of Warhol's little "oh golly gees", Which silver wig will take the cable? From those who used to like my Can. They rarely try to eat me That sad dent and bulge on my lid. Give my sikness away universally From those who used to love my Can. Like Dino, Frank, Sammy, and Peter Lof-tan As I heat up through the winter, And continue to subject my Bochilism, To the creation of these noodled Cantors Because, they please me now and again. Since I'm still quite fond of my own Can. Jew know what I'm saying? I'm not praying? I'm just displaying. I'm straight up fucking poison. A subscription to calomine lotion A wicked witches potion, no devotion no motivation, just two spoons and a heel in a fork potato sealed container of borrowed tupperware labia recepticles. I will steadily hide the smell That my bacteria excretes to tell. the world I am a sick can Better opened under a ceiling fan. I won't weep on command Or beat the Republi-can's Bush. When a thought begins to swell within me I hypnotize the can opener to see that my deformed can holds a lovely pea. It takes those coincidences and libations Trapped there in my head and bottom. that imprison me in paper starvation A labeled can just like your shallow WOMB. They can't be destroyed or appeased As long as they've never been boiled. And that's a blessing to the beanbag you sit upon after i've soiled & diseased your ridiculous way of viewing your old can. Your poetry is a thing of the past. your way of writing and thinking is shit and when the Jelly fish fly by your window? Know that you are underwater and move on.