The Great Dump of ’65

Just listen to me – all of you the dirty, the persuaded:

Sixties life and look and playboy and poker.
Duck-type  ambiguous artifacts,
Yet generally, quite innocent.

Ladies see shapeliness in clouds.
Gents reflected in the recessive genes of ice.
To distribute, simply embed sex and death,
Then fold a mirror in thirds, finally ispect the shadows.
Unnatural suspects, dull without technology.

All vodkas infused with nefarious encoding.
You, Mr. Fleming, showed JFK a spy crazed lusty novel –
How heavily imbued with ties, hats, the red phone, desks, a blonde.
Artistic movements – cubists, surrealists, dadaists and Bucky’s Balls, just as in art or in fact? Three years now.

My words ambiguous enough, supposedly,
Decomposing, blantant but silent. Next door,
Someone defiantly sweats over a project:
Our Outdated Social Misbehavior.
Where it’s coming from is unknown.
Can you even determine a single source?

Spread your arms widely across different domains:
Beer, soda, watches, stockings, cruises, costume jewels.
When the stenographer became involved with some director,
Perhaps she typed for him at an agency,
Married someone in time life’s art department.
Wedded to different agendas,
Maybe a Client.
He may or may not have knowledge of the messaging.
Sample slices of pie and unknown layers of cakes.
Perhaps neither agency nor client got inserted.
Anything by editor or by publisher, either one,
Whose technical spaces could be deserted.

Our lives blacked out, tail blades, suicide,
Doors, 1966 mauled by a dense article.
Kubrick commences the moon shots of 2001.
A reenactment told in photographs of Lord Snowden.
Reinforcement of text strategic commentary for:
“Alcohol consumption”
“Mind altering”
“Subatomic innuendo”
Partially recalling a chance meeting, now
Only fractionally verifiable in print.
No apologies needed,
None taken, none meant.

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