Issue 162, Summer 2002
Venus is rising. She's muttering,
A sober chick is a sullen trick.
When it comes to bliss, I dream it;
you live it. Indolence, you've left
pee stains all over the almanac.
Minipads all over the palmtop.
Beer cans all over the landscaping.
Act the fact. Balk the talk. Kill the frill.
On the publication of your strange
volume entitled The Death of Our
Sex Life: A Fantasy, that's what I
should have said. Super-fine rationale
for your two dear surrogated sons
(August angel, October devil)!