mr. crankypants memos a wannabeat

my dear young wannabeat:

not that your boyish cock is not real gone
but here's a purple pose from rewound gone:

our acid faces dripping waxed and wounded
in the cut glass crusted dusted mirror
before you were a throbbing mucous dollar shot
on a spilling thrill to your mommy egg

yelling

and yellowed
and scrambled
and bubbled in the raving dawn.

Neal would milk his chrome cruise
into your trim virgin caddy knot

zippo your butt and slam his throttle

until the stars rolled back in your head

then howl akimbo at your awkward whimper
elbowed and thighed and posed

mad chattering the moon on further
to the happy squirt of dawn's early fix.

in summary,
a pale echo of his mad moon wail,
your map is cute but cuts no edge-

his crackle would split your skull

wistfully yours,

mr. crankypants

p.s.
an old man in a dry month, etc.