The Moon
shot a glance
at the furry eyed banker
whose glands
were swollen
and might be coming down with something

across the necropolis the
rings of Saturn
were dancing a jig
on a Santa Claus's grave

"you call this Poetry?!!!" she screamed. " you should
be ashamed ...what have you done to my beautiful Poetry? "

Poetry lay in a pool of her own vomit. She wasn't dead but it was close.

"Never should have had that last shot of John Ashbery " she gurgled and spunked.

"Don't mix Ashbery, Gunn and Bukowski...BLAAAART " she spat up another chunk
of undigested readings. 

The Necropoli stood and shook their bony fingers as if in applause.

The narrator bowed and took his underthings off.

"here are my swollen privies"

He farted a great howling wind that darkened the room and
caused the Necropoli to shudder in appreciation.

Outside the Chauffeur waited, listening to Joni Mitchell and humming along..
"Bluuuuue....songs are like tattoos you know I've been to sea before..."
In the back seat lay a tattered copy of Celine's Mea Culpa once owned by
a former Marine.

The banker ran for the limo but it was too late. The limo had left and it was thundering.

The Moon retired behind a cloud and smiled.