Found written in red spraypaint on the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge (1999)
Mandlebrot motorcars careen carelessly down manta black middle lane maze;
Marvelous carriages thrice nay quadrice the size that they were yesterday,
Pelican pigeons poop on a parosuel;
Umbrella umbilically embers and sways,
And you why are you still here? Down in the crystal clear
Isn't it getting quite late?
You are the Holly King
You are for that I sing.
The beach bums bid bodily bursting on harbor scenes;
Chewing and screwing the bay,
Trained unicyclists ride off corner thrifts;
And better men bum off their plates.
The rounder it gets the shorter ahead,
And the turnscrew furnace hangs lower again,
For should there be done wrong, if there be no song,
Then the turnpike just ends where it came.
You are the Holly King
You are for that I sing
Summertime sweetening,
The court of the Holly King,
And you are for that which I sing.
Hospitable, heavenly, high brow and hinterly
Touched on the high rise again,
Hellcats come miserably, stars drift deliciously,
And the bay splashes where it came.
You are the Holly King
You are for that I sing
Summertime sweetening,
The court of the Holly King,
And you are for that which I sing;
You are the Holly King, and I imagining
A pregnant St. John at the gates.