YOUR AMP IS A DOG YOU KICK

Furstone Riggles was a drunkard of a fine rank, further out
and somewhat obscene, but he took great photographs
some of which he sold, some of which he burnt without pretext

Always cracking jokes, always with his suitcase
full of those things we rarely see, outraged by film theory
and asking constantly if we could go back to the helicopter

For he loved the vantage point of reading the latest in the series
in the back, the radio headset tuned to the tower frequency,
the sipping of a grape & whiskey with eyeball ice cubes.

With the gig in Detroit we found ourselves alone, in front of a mirror
in an antiseptic bathroom in the dungeon of some arena
seventeen commodes positioned perfectly for target practice

Furstone Riggles sighed and said there was no parallel to the doom
of getting rich. I asked him why that was. And Fur
with the seriousness of bricks said that it was boring sometimes

Arguing with the cartons of cigarettes, said that
his bass had abandoned him several dozen sets of strings ago;
that with his embarking on his hobby of lunar history and

The stage pyrotechnics rendering him obsolete in the trousers,
he might soon declare his death no longer for sale, go out
and discover what futile really meant

When you're an Earth-based reality monger. Of course
he immediately denied he had said this and that night went on
to smash a ten thousand dollar bass that men had died coveting.