I swing like a butcher's cut-rate grade E pork butt carcass
In the lowest deep freeze of Dante's dungeon,
Licking my dry nose which disintegrates like
An old mushroom or devolving Michael Jackson prototype.
My sentence strikes at diaphanous moths flutterless
On a bowling pin revolving in a tight circle,
One time horizontal. Spare me, Saviour of the back alley.