I got off that crosstown bus of gay horniess
And got hit by an erroneous truck
I'm stuck with this fondness for the Dead and cartoon dealers
Which one are you?
I was particularly promiscuous in my Afterlife
I kept wanting more earth
I even wanted to fuck the two boys with Biblical shit backpacks
Bicycles, maybe just fuck the striped Mormon douche shirts
Now I'm clean as snowy girders over a river
But my poem is unsound
Which makes me sorta happy
There is always light escapes from the light
Even in the nucleus of Christians of other bodies
we get this wordflesh. untied undead parade.
You're the moons of March to me
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