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.

1 comment:

  1. THE PERSON WHO INVENTED OKAY IS NOT is the greatest things I have ever read. I can be blind now.

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