Nestled in the fat hills
of the dearth of underworld musings
of trance revolution worn for teeny wiggles
and overall effect of nonchalance

Peter Iris defied and ably holed
candid camera giggles drowned in hiss
from German radio hat

Decadent frat commie headed fat wiggly night club dance
stooping clocks bellow gurgled distress underneath your own butt
semen had to be
fraternally regulated
in respect to other crawling nuances
squandered in theft and bereft of doubt

death under God’s profound yearning ones