Good Man One: Gas Points

I wake hearing a big one’s rubber feets screaming smoke into the air,

Spit-coughing a warning call angry to the Greens. No better way to

crack the lids. Little eated one, director of the coffin nail lush gush

red herring shared there, gas points won proper. A tremendous union.

No thing more smart than this battle against the sorest loser: green hell.

“Green hell is all around,” our Good Man warns, “take back our air!”

And green hell is so much bigger than those sinful pukes coming out of the ground.

Big ones run their rubber feets on the blood of dead old beasts.

Everywhere everywhere always all days all nights goading great gas points

Towards the little ones’ breathers. Waiting for Scrape Day, great day.

1 million gas points on the Good Man’s Good Faith Wrist Watch™

Come Scrape Day means pay day, Travel Day, THE DREAM!

“If you dream it, you can do it!” our Good Man cheers.

Dream I had

Me and the smell

of my shit. I sit,

throned, defamed,

fusing with porcelain,

botched bionic blob.

Hurtin’ like a motherfucker

would, had they

licked a little

too much sour

atop the hour.

NOW

bowels all howls,

no cowl growl

but relief waves,

“Hellooo, beautiful.”

AND

when I peel myself

from such devices

I swear (!)

I hear a tear.

here to there;

nether to tether.

(how’s the weather?)

(pretty nice)

THEN

every body

is all ears;

leering peers,

sneers ‘n’ jeers.

Were I dog,

would this feel

SO

em-bare-assing?

Forced! Me!

good dog,

piddle a puddle.

Shit missile

aiming humans take

me on the beat,

affronting those we

meet; please

DO

excrete, excrete!

good dog,

I wipe myself.

hurried, worried

street-side porcelain

was not the

way for me but

the high way for

YOU.