Dad Was a Nazi

If sex was not such a blinding contrast to the world of everyday sensate suffering It would most assuredly be considered by all of us as something of a bother its appendage telepathies a pain in the ass hi it's me again weaponized by logic another bazooka-delivered bad smell historically maladapted to the ordinary mired in detail any single point of which could rumble the whole of it to rubble without force in any guise whatsoever refracted and redacted into the joy of hypnosis although not quite yet seen to completion his fees raised all the right eyebrows who else could be that amply pissed yet not anesthetized to feral hedonism many years possessed of a rare malady so hideous as to be pretty much unspeakable requiring denunciation and excommunication which is usually the cited and excited case according to the all the most avid counsels louts sorry beggars and layabouts each and every incapable of stretching thought into innovation within which we find an angelic innocence this is not a tragic tale but one of triumph a bright beacon to the non-specific figments that random inside our heads far from nimble mein verrückter Vater working the rheostats glazing the gaze into the limerick garden with fewer transliteral deliveries of felicity with far more transoptical evictions of acuity appetites paid for in spit and carrion determined to be not exact merely similar to what remains unknown within us no children or pets were harmed in the making of this poem index in the sky if we die they die