My Aborted Attempt to Behead the Prime Minister

I think I might like you:
you could make me love the saxophone
we could ride a ferry & get splish
splashed
take pictures & complain about them

I'd get new glasses so I could look more closely.
When the police lock me up you'd come.

We'd definitely get ice-cream
& sit in the park
drink from fountains
not get sunburned.
Take trips to funny towns
Not get sentimental.

Discover a novel way to kill the Prime Minister.

You guessed it! That's the Holy Ghost on a chessboard.

Tantrums will be thrown over what will they think of
next. There are secrets. There are collaborators to be
hanged in the town square. Maybe from lamp posts for
effect. Guts falling out of the gut, being stuffed back in
& falling out again. Nerve endings frayed & spliced back
together again by the shapely blue pills. Tiny writing.

Spaces traversed, meridians criss-crossing & back again.

Semi-colonic sentences about multiplying orgasms &
effect of satellite dishes on one's gonads. Hot yoga
detoxification. More foam. Less back fat. Cyanide pills.

What is art except
figuratively speaking
not croaking quite yet.

But enough about love:
I can't quite say.