Posture-Pedic Poem by Walter Burns

upright man is faster than
the poles predict the easy win
and supper's ready for the thin
the fat man gets the buttered skin
and Jesus loves the ones who sin
so that's the point where hope begins
I drive up in my Muerte Benz

I refuse the bite of the archetype
it's metal-mouthed and braced to shout
always changing rearranging
faces in my absolut absolute
constitutes a hope to find
an open mind but
more so seeks the seventh sign

classifieds can't sell my boat
the one in which I almost wrote
the finest letter to a goat
that ate my words inside my throat
of which I sheered its downme coat
and wore my sweat inside the moat
the meaning of which I now misquote

puckered pavement porous pigment
my fairness fades into a figment
skewered saline saves what's in me
from billowing into your veins
pumped the plasma drained phantasma
and now I know we're all the same

jack the phat should eat his wife
the plate and spoon should take their life
and little Horner should use a knife
and I should be the one to say
'cause I read them all just yesterday

there's no end to running on
and if there was we'd all be gone
lifted from our platitude to take
upon an attitude (that we'd all be dying soon)
that here is now and damn the cow
that took the chance to leap the moon

I rewrote Vognar I rewrote cummings
I took the Beatles guitar strummings
I copied Shakespeare's perfect lines
and made them mine so many times
some are veiled and some are not
who cares now I'm never caught

once a turn you bring me roses
my kindred souls they miss their noses
rotting flesh look up and see our skulls
are primal next to thee
bring a blanket and snuggle near
the sun will set same time next year
do not bank on words to last
Buy my Benz and drive it fast!