• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 07
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Come on take a potshot
Hotshot, like you’re the kettle,
Gleaming new on the stove.

Kettles are the stylish homegoods;
Bauhaus in their formality
But pots? Piss or get off.

Form does not follow
Function, round squat
And ambiguously used.

I said take it, hotshot,
Like you’re an F-18
Pilot, a snot-faced youth

Ensnared in derring-do
With some imagined
Soviet antithesis.

Do a barrel roll,
Get an attaboy,
Callout the commander,

As stout as a saltshaker,
And his moustache!
Groomed carefully in the mirror,

His moustache borderline
Intrusive caterpillar-like,
His superiority, the worm



Which like all worms,
Loves the cold earth;
A grave, a barrow,
A Lenten clay, a wall.

So come on hotshot,
Take the potshot.
You’re the kettle,
I’m the burn.