Posted on May 1, 2012
dung kitten love hiss
chapter in the moon
wonder what the fuss is
wish her but a clue
simper clad in livestock
whiskers tagged with clay
haven’t got the money
hiccups made of
pastry pastry limping through the day.
shiloh had it coming
when he told him his golf swing
wasn’t too hot
on a day of spelunking
whatever happened angles against
i’ve got money figuring
the exact distance from here to
that taxicab laughs again.
loving pisses on the
you ain’t got nothing
but spring ankles
so the fuck what
in the sandstorms of cotton
blasting their way
of what was left
of what was sold
often never gets told
hates the singing of the
only wants to get out
but can’t make love
like he used to.
God told me
capitalism ain’t got nothing
on the shingles.
God told me that cause he was dancing with Sandy and sandy didn’t know nothing but what He told her and she wasn’t frightened at all except for the kitten slobbering all over the carpet windows
says stop doing that, i don’t need no spell check bitch.
sexism wins the day fellas
if only you know the price was right
and then we could all go home
and be black like poor people
you racist pgymalion dandelion wart
i’ve got my mind had
to what was once told in the jigsaw
tumbling about the board like a
pizza crust wonder
and she says to him like it’s all
white and orange and no ray of light in becoming
of an officer like that.
I’ve got muscles sure
but who doesn’t when the sun’s up and you’re trying??
i’m just lost that’s all there is to it.
and i’m wondering if you are too.
and maybe we can make love
and free our sisters.
it’s not that easy says history blind like a cat.
if I were to write a short gory enough for you but something tasty for the high ones i’d begin it with the phrase
and then move onto green pastures.
c’mon now kids meals aren’t for tricks
we’ve got work to do
in siberia when the assholes come
white stuff all over your palms
and you rub it in like snowballs
sick sons of bitches ruining the day with
their claptrap temptations.
i didn’t do much there
but wait for something
like the ice cream truck
and then i awoke and
there was one more dead
and i had my computer
which reminded me of dark angels
eliot mostly, but also wikipedia.
you want to know what it’s like to be a bureaucrat in a shit storm huh it’s nothing really much anyway. i just keep my mouth shut and cry like a lizard changing colors cause he’s too weak to lift the shit up and the whistle ain’t blowing cause his lips are closed. fuck war fuck me sing to thee my country anthony was one of them i think. i don’t know. named a base after him called you will die here too while your other will play cards and laugh and then go home and write a novel.
therapy is good i guess when you’re nothing thinking anymore
and just throwing the shoes at the horses so they might just fit in the hole in the wall.
beers are had like water when you’re training and not breathing much and all you want is a knocked-out
what happened isn’t made for television or even this square peg but only for me and maybe those squirrels who always seemed to be watching me when i was walking to school or playing with the boys outside dying dying dying dying dying dying dying and not just them but all the sad people who we never handed that bus ticket that was supposed to send them on their way to vegas what stays there happens there only for the few. the rest go on with it all and then they forget forgotten.
i wish i had that answer for you kid but there ain’t much there.
unlucky ain’t quite right
bright lights big pretties showing their little tight skirts
ain’t quite right either but hey you watch
i don’t know what’s come over me
but it’s exciting not to have to look up that same damn porn sights single shot front sight tip post never used but abused by your friends you think
and then they’re wondering years later why they can’t get it up anymore well that’s easy cause you killed the innocent and it probably wasn’t even your fault but you just had to wank him whack him cause that’s what the assholes upstairs were briefed to do by the tunnel at the end of justice as spoken by the collective appetite spokespeople hunters.
poetry is dead i know
you know it cause the last time a newspaper was read with any kind of meaning
other than a paycheck or an escalator waiting for the next floor was well around the same time we couldn’t think or better yet dance inside like those kittens i was watching in lyon seemed to be doing pretty well despite it all, as if
it never occurred to them history had happened and all that was left was the wasteland and ice cream trucks.
ok ok, we can still make things good.
and maybe it’s already all sun and i’m just too busy looking down at the cucumber crumbling beneath the skyscrapers burning.
got to piss
i’ll be right back
with that elvis handshake.
virtuosity is such bullshit you know? prophecy led to genesis. and look where that led the big bang? you see where this is moving forward…
i’ve got a question for the science teacher
that might not be on the testicles
or at least mine ain’t as funny as his
looking at the data that is
it appears we’re headed for another collapse cycle equilibrium that’ll be fixed up in a jiffy cash only i gotta run.
i’m thinking maybe i won’t be sleeping tonight cause there’s something i gotta tell the postman who fucked my wife.
she was in her fifties sure
and she kept showing me her love for little boys and leaving me no choice but to say, sure i’ll have it with the cone.
and then we waffled, or i think we probably will once she reads that next email
after I get back from the trail that passes through france mostly but also spaniels are so not cool. I prefer the dog.
genius isn’t possible because we’re all part of the same
cotton fields where the slaves built our cadillacs and then we handed it all back as a joke of some kind. i don’t get it, but I know it’s up to no Goodrich tires too, i think.
whatever. i don’t know the answer. i’m just the problem solver. you give me the cash and I give you a problem to solve. and then it just cycles through the violence until its nice and soap suds so we can let it dry on the fire place at a farm in nowhere france where the antimoderns live not perfectly but something nearing helpful for the task at hand. i say this only because my mind is starting to kick back in which is a problem for the solution at hand. i’ll just think sweet thoughts.
if i had lost something more than my cute aunty cheeks there something from the same skin of the cheeks but lower, like an arm or leg, maybe i wouldn’t be such a donkey getting all wild with the back limb, cause it wouldn’t be there anymore.
i’d just graze until i park for good in the parking lot maze next to west farms mall.
whether she had it coming
i’ll never know
cause she never let me come in her kingdom again
so I was left thinking kind thoughts about the donkey who always raised his jaw to my cheek like i was some kind of brother.
is it really possible to live under one roof without the shit burning down? scrape off the shit and then it won’t burn like tomato peels in the fire or walnut shells burn better. i wonder.
community is that great word no one bothers to dance to anymore since
the planes crashed again and again and thank god we paid that protection fee.
it’s funny how we talk like slaves.
tommy pin balled it on the stage I believe from what I remember
even though I hadn’t even known who he was then since I was still sleeping.
i could never get this passed out like a Thomas paine pamphlet and even if I could
the bastards still wouldn’t let me win the game. so i’ll just post it on of those university totem poles where all the cars being sold go. damn bikers on stanford’s campus, running me over like i ran over the pashtuns.
Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping pong mean pin ball.
it’s 1430 here in Disney world and the kids are still loving it from what I can tell looking out the window. fuck capital autocorrect. no more capital. all lower case freedoms.
i think i at least have to make it to fifty before i sleep again. i don’t want to die. i love the loved too much to dye wool like it’s nothing but cotton.
may day comes hard i hope. i’m not much of a fighter, but i like to watch as long as there’s nothing to it. which is ironic, since i’m really hoping there’s something to it like the cocks who rape the chicks for the sake of the egg breakfast. but i’m no hater. i’m a lover who chants children’s songs, really, only they’re not for those who haven’t seen the spreading of a lady’s leg.
d.h. lawrence once told me
in my sleeping bag
that i needed to stop wanking
and hold a candle against the nylon
which i thought was a bad idea at the time
but now i’m starting to wonder.
thirty seven percent left before the end
and i’m just starting to get to the where it is
i left my contact list before the phone was dropped.
let’s talk about her one more time
cause there’s not much else
in this universe
except some fishes in the sea.
watching her swim by me is like watching you know what, except in reverse. now it’s me whose going up in flames, not them. except that’s a bad allergy cause
it’s really not worth all the runny knowingness. i know trust me i know it’s not a cadillac.
pastry pastry limping through the day.
where the money people manufacture their stereotypical prototypes isn’t really up to me or you. but maybe we can build a moat or something like that to keep them in?
i’m just thinking off the top of my collar where some jackass drooled on me before speeding off in something shiny that smelled of burnt shit in foreign lands. i ain’t making it to fifty. not tonight.
Progress. there we go. i supersized ya for the sake of the economy. but the rest of this will be thrift thrift thrift. no capital accumulation for you, mr. letter whatever.
if i were to smoke a joint on a bridge
i’d probably keep it real close
so the rhymes didn’t spill
over and mix with the sand that’s eating up the water below.
that wouldn’t be kind to the fishes. they’re not poetic. they’re just there.
sorry folks. didn’t mean to offend anybody. i’m just trying to get by like the west. pancakes are cruel when they’re not flipped.
thirty two percent. time to shake
the earth one third of the way
i’m singing this here
cause the record stopped
but something’s gotta give for jesus christ’s wake.
i wish i were a sephard. then i’d have the skin of jesus.
i think i’ll go for a run
to borrow some wind for the weeks ahead
all shut in from
life’s capacities as an engine burning steam
in the jetsam flotsam jibber jabber wake.
God told me nothing. i was kidding. i’m not a loon like
that chick who opened her legs to that sonofabitch cock, again. i’ll just dig a hole and bury myself in it. metaphorically good-willingly speaking.
back to the war cause it’s what opened that third man’s eyes
to the possibilities of the other when his life is full of shit.
i wish you could see his eyes when he saw his eyes.
i wish she could see your eyes while you saw his eyes see his eyes. i wish chainsaws didn’t cut but the opposite. i wish we could heal the earth together.
i read some poets sure
but i never caked my face in it.
had the teacher told me you’d be a poet,
i would have said, and you shut the fuck up, cunt.
life is funny how it goes.
misogyny isn’t about the other end of the stick
much less your own chest thumping. it’s not even about the squirrel that stares at you while you walk to school. i don’t know what it’s about. but it’s about love and when she met the guy who called her a cunt in another life, before they forgot, and bought tickets to the lovely animated comedy about a superhero family, but still very much patriarchal.
there’s a method to the mad
nesting its way in you
and you can’t just join the may day protest
because you don’t speak enough french anyway
and you’ll probably just get pummeled by some kid who doesn’t
realize you once squeezed the heart out of some nonexistent man’s chest.
twenty six percent and counting. gotta explain what i’m up to before the blackness leaves me no choice but to sleep again. donkeys aren’t as stupid and stubborn as you think. i’ll tell you that much. i once befriended one, and he was smart enough to accept the offer, even though he didn’t know much about what was going on, and he didn’t much care what i had to say.
capital deserves its own shit stall.
every week or so i’ll rake up what he’s left. and otherwise just let him do his thing behind the white electrical tape and the gate that occasionally swings to and fro. i’m thinking again. too tired not to.
i wonder if william blake owned an apple and just kept it another of his splendid secrets. not that i’ve ever really read the guy, but i’ve heard nice things. i have to imagine he did.
twenty four percent and the war’s still raging. i read the bible there. for the first time. the old one. not the new one. i had pretty much given up halfway through psalms. help some other self. i ain’t marching with you to your land of plenty. i’ve got my own plans with the rest of ‘em. there’s plenty to go around here, thank you very much.
shingles ain’t as pretty
as a girl in your skivvy
from a day far far away
when she leaned in
and hissed your kitten name supreme.
i’ve got a fifty something now
she doesn’t need to hiss like
the dung in the donkey’s stable.
this is making far too much sense
gotta remember it’s not about the waste.
haste haste haste twenty two percent misbegotten.
i’m a dying man now
you might as well stop
and help me hiss my last hiss, miss.
misanthropy is for the dogs.
i’m a man with a woman at every turn
of my self. that’s what i told the psychologist when
she asked me why i hated her in my dream.
and i love dogs. and dogs hardly hate. and there are better metaphors in the sea.
we’re in the red now. 333 am. gotta wake up at the strike of dawn.
may day cometh.
may the day be bright with milk and honey.
may she lick our wounds.
may she nest in our breasts.
may she offer flames of healing.