Wendy Williams' wigs
and her smug pride of her own
stupidity,
lack of processes,
retro-progress-ing,
embody
a flippant misses firing.

Squads of hibernating
papyrus kings
turn over in their
silent suites
for awful appallation
at her insensitive agitation
(without trying)
fostering abhoration.

Inflation is a child
of candy beds for the dying.
Mahatma Ghandi's grave
is rented out for raves
to blonds who shave
initials into their triangles--
everyone of them the same.

U.S.A.
you are a mother;
you are a father;
you are enslaved;
you are a fake.

Make up, stave off
the sexy hex mistakes.

06/25/2008

Posted on 06/26/2008
Copyright © 2024 Ryan Nardi