Callipers

I fall onto
Two-pronged little god

Contusion spills into me from both sides
But the left prong is sharper

And penetrates paper wrapping
I'm wrapped in paper, or cardboard, prophet

These dark-purple blobs like fur
But Mr. Darwin said

The fur only wants one
So the black on white on red falls off

Leeving deeper, a blood
Red, true red

Vaccination in me
(but i don't mind, it feels kind of good)

Now, no fear of
Turning grey carcinogen, straining 'Nazi T4!'

Che is on my chest, suckling
Motherly bosom, with

Deep throat and plastic chip Bay of Pigs
Whores back into Sam's cellar

As Mr. Marx holds my fist up
Above beautiful world fuck-up corps

Becoming taller, to find more,
More free-thinkers to make dangerous.