bread is artificial, beef natural - unless bread tumbles
from the heavens into hands aloft held by fashioned meat,
then bread's as soon a harp in the hand of that meat- & hair-
sprinkled gentleman, Chimaeras Verser, by night sky his
eye can spot only giants whom he believes are hospitable
to such intonations as "what down your throats pour once
fluttered, or crawled" or "consult the blood, Wished Alikes!",
else beneath that night sky he'd play, amidst Towers (Yeats,
Crane, &c), filthy music ("Were My Head Perched 'Pon A Lighter
Neck My Mouth, Virginia, Could Drop Bread From Far Above
Into My Hands And Yours, Inscription Whom The Ages Storm")
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