Fu Manchu, dilettante of evil, his mercantile probation always alert. he
crows the false love with most eager prying into the world. his world,
he rose above the namby pamby lumpy static placidity. he scores. the
poem, prime force in a language, or yet today, stops in a threat and
buries itself. where will we live without the poem alongside? one might
wonder. and falling prey, stern, exactly aspiring toward some painted
wellspring of mere touchiness, which would be fundamental payback, like
voting Republican. we would love, if the mercantile approach to world
view weren't so pragmatic. here's the opium you ordered sir, said the
proposed functionary in the usual way of refinement. and we're not the
worst pawns, just the ones on the board. so Fu Manchu makes reams of
sense. the copier sprays out more sheets filled with the temerity of
repeating exactly this. these are poems, actually. they “make sense”.
political science lurks underneath. Mothman flies swiftly above, and it
is indeed that sight that makes you piss your pants.
