corporate clowns
arrived like second class post, slowly it arrived amongst a time of low expectations
everyone had thought it was gone for good, it’s appearance delayed outside windows, inclement
and I didn’t hear it right, did she say.”dead sale”, “dead seal”, “dead cells”, a royal seal?
THIS IS A CONSTITUTION
they want us to keep so many balls in the air, they think we’re clowns, red noses and pie in faces , the laughter of the crowd,
but not under a big top standing under a rusted corporate sign.
Eatmorewords's Blog 
but not under a big top
standing under a rusted Christian
the unwanted baby awake with the laughter
this world just a prelude
growth glue and broken bones
time is moving an answer from the eye
I wrote your name on a DUST-JACKET BLURB
you were the parents
thinned with fear
they lied about renewal
they lied about regeneration
the unwanted baby floats in the lake of spirit bound flames
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how many times are you going to ask how meaningful are coincidences
simultaneous occurrences
unrelated events
psychic razor blades
pant phenomena
concrete abstractions
yes, after thousands of times…dust
being the poster-boy of abstinence
withdrawing from your shaky hand
what you were going to use to reproduce
has dried up
pearly foam no more
mournful torment
stick honesty
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You can’t count the times
snake oil salesmen
tailored stitched
role into town
a thousand pins randomly stuck into a map, viewing reveals
patterns emerge
razor sharp
dots joins dots tied to a ball of wool
that unravels with the gradient
rolling
unravelling centrifugally spinning
past ghosts
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five years of art school and you produced one pattern of a thousand or twenty thousand pins
you said that you stuck them in maps but no one could see the maps
five years of art school and you produced one pattern using 700 or 2000 pins
you said you purchased the pins but you five-fingered them
who was that girl that woman with the methylone
everyone loved her and her royal pink salt
she had sticky hands she had sweat rings
royal pink salt and a stinky behind
you remember the methylone
it was your buddy
it laughed when the pattern said, “ouch”
it misplaced the maps
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The pins were purchased on line – a batch of 5,000 assorted pins – they came with a history – some had held Manhattan project blueprints – others had held schematic drawings of nightmares – others stuck Rorschach patterns to boards in brown bricked buildings – DNA compressed clung to the pins sharp points – at night he would select a pin – by colour, shape, age, sharpness – press into himself to see if he was there – brilliant light eroded the memory of the methylone girl – positioned on the map where crease and folds hide places and secret bunkers where he kept his collection
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sharp divergence between pins
contradictory DNA makes little difference
you kept saying that others couldn’t see the maps because they were American maps
obscure twilight zones
no proof often comes before real existence
you mention nightmare drawings but where are the footnotes ?
the smell of European folds are not to be found in American creases
that poor girl pushed in all the pins
you were an OBSERVER
methylone is so slippery
acolytes beware
you told that young lady that by pushing in the pins, she would experience your POWER
the neighbors complained about the noise
their infant was damaged by the foul leaking methylone
their unborn unwanted baby was blessed with horns
her lower parts never recovered from the fatigue
you looked down there
why you were there at the appointed time is a mystery
someone had shaved her bush
fortnight hairs
brown pins with no heads
one of your famous poems: FORTNIGHT HAIRS WITH NO HEADS
ambiguous words difficult to pin down
sharp dichotomy between real and unreal maps
pubic hair must fulfill certain functions
tough-minded headless pins
infantile horns and the neighbors cannot sleep
industrialized America with its old-fashioned maps
often not recognized as maps
the footnotes say that hair-cutting is symbolic castration
art school often cut pubic hair to control primary aggressive impulses
five years at art school via bald genitalia
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at scouts they never taught you to read maps, they gave you a knife and uniform – smoking behind the tents, fingers deep inside
wetness, hair sticks, she, her
under nails, bitten through nerves, they never taught you the key to the maps, the way to read the signs,
agreed upon icons
hills and mountains, differentiated by lines, contours closer together denotes height, her contours
pink under man made fibres, her map, a heart,
a place to bury your treasure
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your famous poem taught the juveniles a new syntax, a new way to see, a new way to use what they already had and at that reading, when one exposed the map – on skin, pin pricked Indian ink –
a map of your journey here, old as time and thumbed in text books amongst the stifled laughter, the part teachers wouldn’t let you discuss – they all felt lost in this new word of words, struggling to get footholds in the dialect, new and unyielding, new and bald
that’s how it starts
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