o high tension
you’ll contrive to play with us
it bends condescends to
fix with its stare

the comic-opera clown
got burnt by the sun
a bit later than we’d like
the drunkenness ensued
so that tensions rise
you need to blow your nose, dried fruit
wizened masticated
and gruel oozes out

in its course, what in the goddess
doesn’t fit the mortal’s bill is
the foul smell she’s acquired
through self-neglect
tensions will rise if
you fall hard for
they masticate, the good old subconscious
what got imprinted was the attraction
not to the usual crap like
badabim-badaboom, to the particular
the drum roll was drummed out
tensions rise with envy
shitting bricks there
where on the sly the slops
are slung into the slops

pulverized bones
stuck in the wrong throat, still alive and kicking
in company the wisecracker
wound up his own tra-la-la
tensions will rise when the beam
of the floodlight goes blind, over mugs
the given sucker punch spreads
like a haematoma cloudlet

totally fucked in the head
got some sense knocked into his head, and all eyes
he turned to himself by butting the bag
the fist flew back in the other
tensions will rise with the weather
slushy, the pied pooch
whines, the pink tongue
becomes rough to the touch

in the moment of licking
unfamiliar things, they stocked up on
spirits and by agreement
without twisting arms
heightened tensions are threatened
by the rage of a higher-order being
or a broad’s laughter that gathers strength
from the habit of helplessness

to catch on whence was chopped
the nice hunk it’s enough
to smooth over the place of detachment
and even out the unnecessary