Hip tip

Tip-toe tornado with a taste of trepidation
like a torpid tepid talcum tangerine
sipping in the garden of eden
slight and malcontent in ecstasy
a friday morning freakout from
too much opium

Danger dangles like angels and amateurs
the bleak street of beat nations
the generation antebellum tell 'em
emancipate the nobles from their
empty sense of cents

Wrote a book for you and a couple dozen
poems with a surreal stability
some kind of acid trip upside
the slumping sandwich you
didn't even eat

Skeletons and skulls skipping along harbor bays
waddling in swim trunks with apathy
stuck in my car door and bucking bronco
willfully neglecting the agony and sampling
scurrying in metronomes