We turn our dishes to
Heaven, but
What manner of dog will come running
To lick them,
Drawn to the censored moaning groins
And the pyrotechnics of false death
And chemical love?
Fetch me a big stick to shake
At these stellar voyeurs!
I want nothing to do with them
As I run down my strange streets,
An accidental alien without
A ray gun.
From my book, On The Other Side Of The Eye, 2007
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