I believe in the gathering of rust
and in the accumulation of dust.
I believe in the boom, and the unpredictable bust;
in the tit, in the tat, even in Carol Doda’s bust;
in the greasiness of phrase and the word dislocated.
I believe in the misery of advertizing, the whitewash
of probability, the gouge of sell. I believe
in jack – the jackboot, the jackpot, the jack
me off. I firmly hold that nowhere is
anyone ever able to turn the rust, the dust, the bust,
the whole ecstatic pitfall off.
I believe, too, in shooting stars,
digging in spades their wink at the grave.
I should also like to take this opportunity
to re-affirm my faith in any bank
along whatever stream of the cess
and the cease of consciousness.