The great machinegunist
Blew countless clever holes
In innocent pig-tailed puffs
Which blot the serene night sky
In pathetic remnants.
I sit, head resting, watching its stilled corpse.
The brush of sound invades my ears.
Ah, the urgency of night revelers.
Once one with them, now alien.
No longer brushing as they brush.
Defying the puffed, shot-through canvas.
I wait for tears to erupt,
But serenity persists.
Filled with surreal promises,
I anticipate fulfillment.
The clop of leaden feet
Stumble across the blue-collar cement.
And I ponder Purpose.
Jokingly,
There is none.
[Audience laughs]
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