Promise City

Desert sands and mesopotatoes,

Makeshift hands shake naughty oregano,

Promise City doesn’t exist -

Yet.

But in twenty-years

When I’m through with being me

When I peel off my ghost skeleton

Smashing concubines and pleasuring the sphinx,

The world will look like a disfigured spirit,

And I’ll take off my clothes,

press my face against your window,

my nose will look like a pig’s dainty proboscis,

I’ll shout:

Hangman Harry!

Is back to save the world!

Kill me now

If

You

Want

To

Halt

My

Inevitable

Construction!

A Danish goatherder will rise to the challenge

He’ll sever my face in horrendous places

He will be

the inheritor of love.