i saw mommy kissing santa claus
underneath the mistletoe last night,
and i guess that freud was right,
because why else would i want to shoot on sight
that fat bastard in his suit of red and white?

you're welcome! and another little tidbit:


carolingian

that remus of the underworld
in his jockstrap. thus the remains of
a poppy-seeded muffin, topless.

a kind of seismic undertow. a lost
clause, a wrongheaded spark of
common termagent: cratch, slump, bitch.

and she was its living center, it cracked and mouldless about her--
there was no other way
to take it but on the inside,

pinked, withered, not stale but ill,
without even the sop of a wandering
dock, a port of call, sans taste, sans everything--

negus.
negutiens.
te negitor domino.