a report upon the consumption of myself i am a panther corked out and bellowing in cement walls and i m angry at blue evenings without ventilators and i m angry with you and it will come like a rose it will come like a man walking through fire it will chime like an unseen trumpet in a trunk the eyes will smell like sausages the feet will have small propellers and i will hold you in bayonne and the sailors will smile and my heart like something cut away from cancer will feel and beat again feel and beat again but now the blue evening is cinched like old muskets and the dangling sex rope hangs as the tree stands up and calls july and the dust of hope in the bottom of paper cups along with small spiders that have names like ancient european cities cuckoo spit and dross heavy wheels oil wells stuck between fish and sucking up grey grass of love and the palms up on the cliff waving waving in the warm yellow light as i walk into a drug store to buy toothpaste rubbers photographs of frogs a copy of the latest consumer reports for i consume and i am consumed and would like to know on this blue evening just which razor blade it would be best for me to use or maybe i could get a station wagon or buy a stereo receiver a movie camera say 8mm under fifty five dollars or an electric frying pan like the silver head of some god thing after they dropped the bomb bang and the grass gives up and love is a shadow and love is a fishtail waving through knits of thread that seem eyes but are only whats left of me on the last evening after the bands have suicided out the carnival has left town and theyve blown up the y w c a like a giant balloon and sent it out to sea full of screaming lovely lonely girls