Saturday, November 28, 2009

IF IT IS COLD THEN IT IS COLD

Your description of the ocean floor
from outerspace did not make sense

I thought it would be beautiful. It was not
I raised my arm and scattered a cloud

I cannot imagine how hard it is to die
without ever knowing the pulse of morning

I still search the night for teenagers
to corrupt with my still-held anger

and when I am finished I will finish
and the Finnish will continue to fin

the fish at the bottom will continue
the game of “let’s see who can hold

our breaths the longest.” Our feet
the only thing touching above the mattress

our unit: the measurement of us
the touch of touch that is

Monday, March 30, 2009

ALL ALNE I KEEP THE WOLVES AT BAY THER IS ONLY ONE THIGN THAT I CN SAY

ALL THOS LONELYLONLY TIMES

ARE WE HUMAN OR ARE WE DANCER? ARE WE HUMAN OR ARE WE DANCER? ARE WE HUMAN OR ARE WE DANCER? ARE WE HUMAN OR ARE WE DANCER? ARE WE HUMAN OR ARE WE DAN

poem of the #6

I DON'T ALWAYS SHOOT BLANKS

Sometimes I leave the galaxy, mid-quail.
All my gravy covered in handsome goo.

Sometimes it's like, "Where are you?"
and I'm like, "Nowhere, but not here."

My trellis dotted with clown flowers
piffling water like schmucks,

spotting grease stains on planets, but
too stuck acting funny to point them out.

"Weirdhelmschlamdong."
"Kookymafoogabutthonk."

These are the cries of my heart
in its prison of nightwalks and groceries.

One time I smacked a ho satellite
and blanked the whole sadistic plumber

under me and the stupid things I do.
The stupidest thing I've ever done

continues like a world, this one, this shotput
God did by accident in his sleep, I think.

poem of the #5

GOD LEFT HIS LINENS IN MY PURSE

So I settled for masturbation and mouth wash
and channeling the spirits of dead mice.

Call me the sister with the hop chop,
the shiny shoes with the stampede sole.

Tonight, we're totally an acid reflux hoodie
bumping the head out the hands stuffed.

"Don't call it a comeback," said the lifer
to the guard. "I'll be gone one way."

Sometimes your head looks like this: { }
which frightens me. No, it excites me.

My wig burns. My dick frisks itself.
It looks like this: 8====:(((((((

because you are not there.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

poem of the #4

ALL YOUR FACES ARE PORNO FACES

Sorry, I don't eat virgins, but I like how they taste.
I am wasted again. Someone threw me away without
squeezing out the last bit. It hurts like a sun-monkey,
this unpeeling and retrying. Momma won't you hit
refresh? Pet me like a snowstorm? Moose me like a
moose cub, raise me with a lick? Bear me like a bear
cub, falling down the avalanche--if it's okay with you.
All the blobbiness of the earth keeps worsening,
somehow. I know that it cannot get worse, right?
It can only turn to wassail and I'll be your sexy clove.
The river is outside, unable to leak, and your face
oh your face is not a botched moon landing ah
but it is! That's okay though. Really, it is.
Have you ever got horny on the moon?
Crater lotion and helmet fog. Squinchy
is how the eyes go when you die, overdue.
Feeling is what makes it worse but fuck it:
the chorus of empty keeps shouting at me
"THE PERSON WHO INVENTED OKAY IS NOT."
It's an anthem, but it's got addendums.
Addendum #1: This ease of the heart-throb.
Addendum #2: Things that cannot break.
Addendum #3: Midnight. Fucking. Ham.
Addendums #4--∞: The morning after, oh hell.
Addendum #∞: Oh jiminey and the wrens.
Addendum #∞+1: Blah, blah, blah, blah.
I have nothing left to say. Come here.