men in suits are more dangerous then a 1000 atomic bombs
men in suits, more dangerous than a 1,000 atomic bombs
murder at a safe distance
death via video
conference call massacre, a force field of bureaucracy
faceless names at the bottom of letters, the secretaries know where the bodies are buried
they are selling up
the ship is going down and I saw them making tiny holes in the life jackets
Eatmorewords's Blog 
Incredible! & your imagery of words is phenomenal. I’ve always loved your way of writing and expressing yourself in your own style. Brilliant writing my friend. 🙂
P.S I posted a new poem. check it. 🙂
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STREET SCUM ARE EMPLOYED AS BABYSITTERS
FOR 1,000 ATOMIC BOMBS
bookshelves no longer hold books
odd bottles of cheap champagne instead
Dollar Store champagne
blubbery grape drink
wine forbidden at Farmers Markets
good for kidney stones
and removing scale
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WHICH IS EASIER— TO UNDRESS IN FRONT OF 1,000 ATOMIC BOMBS
OR 1,000 TELEVISION SETS ?
with all of your income
why do you wear cheap socks ?
when poetry circles around like a vulture
it makes things worse
poetry stolen from cartoon captions
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the tiny holes in the life jacket
permit one to smell the stuffing
ecclesiastical dust (a true thesaurus)
———————-
marooned in a world
where people drink cheap wine
with octogenarian buttered toast
and fresh pigeon droppings
———————-
trying to sleep
with Gina Lollobrigida
constantly pulling your nose
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all caps sentences are read silently yet aggressively inside my head – the noise from a 1,000 to sets blur into a tornado of drone* – only rappers can afford expensive socks –
a new pair for each new day
*the drone, constant
like that radio station in St.Petersburg Florida that played Stairway to Heaven on a 24hr loop
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all CAP sentences ( screaming ???)
people with weak eyesight love all CAPS
I love all CAPS
why dabble in an inferior case ?
proper niche——–big bird pants
T.S. Eliot an inert haunter
making mooing sounds
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ALL CAP EMAILS ANGER THE SHY MAN
NO IDEA IF ITS PERSONAL
DAILY PARANOIA
FEAR OF THE INBOX
ALL CAPS AND WRITTEN IN RED
MIS-READ
INTERPRETATION INCORRECTLY ASSIGNED
TS ELIOTS VOICE SAVED IN ACETATE
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simple-minded presumptions frequently dupe us
Gina Lollobrigida pulling our noses
what is an accurate expression of our imagination ?
night owls listening to jazz and writing poetry
pampered by the girl at the coffee counter
giving her a couple of spider pills on the sly
smelling her fingers as she massages your neck
textures of Thelonious Monk in the background
somewhere magicians are performing tricks
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they say that you have a conduit from your mind
to a television screen
spectators watch you comb your hair
the theater of Johnny Boy
—————————
—————————
that sex arrangement you had with Mrs. Curie
SHE was colorless and cool to the touch
outrageous violations in the bedroom
electric blankets— alternating lube
wet at first and then super glue dry
pleasure on one foot—suffering on the other
the path to ecstasy was also the path to annihilation
the image of a mushroom cloud stamped on each hand
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obsessively repeated exposure to Robert Frost
the narcotic metronome of the famous poet
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end of the world messages on the television
“DO NOT LIVE INSIDE THE WRITTEN WORD”
poetry has become an instrument of aggression
head doctors point to the groin area
the start of the birth-death cycle
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1,000 atomic bombs
or an alien virus
from a bug bite or a needle prick
or a chubby guy at the truck stop
wounded angels falling from the sky
or so it seems
Satan with his weapons that destroy both directions
poets gather at the library —there precisely to kill
anger at the lack of the printed page
anger at the death of language
bathrooms with identities
confusing symbols
older folks go outside
behind some shrubs
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on your honeymoon night
your wife said,
“you may have a 1,000 atomic bombs
but I have the crack of control”
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1,000 atomic bombs in a heap of feces
love has grown smaller
the astronaut carrying his environment with him
daily mutations—more controlled
rather than letting them occur at random
long ago conventional poetry
became conversational poetry
at first the endless comments seem like gibberish
but there is a ring of authentic experience
MODERN DAY VIRGIL
MODERN DAY DANTE
MODERN DAY RIMBAUD
voices from the dark sides of human nature
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LONG AGO CONVENTIONAL POETRY
BECAME CONVERSATIONAL POETRY
poetry feeds the furnace of identity recovery
who or what feeds the naked people living in caves ?
Angelic Virgins ?
palpitating poetry from Allen Ginsberg served on a bun
messianic and reformist beef pre-chewed
the bread baked in a nuclear oven
by German scientists
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ALL POETS PRAISE DISOBEDIENCE
lots of broken bones—no time for them to heal
drugs to excess—never enough
half way at great psychic cost
barbarism from birth
KENTUCKY
naked in the garden
soon to be destroyed by sex
self-restraint wasn’t an option
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TO UNDRESS IN FRONT OF 1,000 ATOMIC BOMBS
ferocious nudity—can nudity be ferocious ?
stripped away—soon to be defiled
vulnerable to the faceless rape
———————————-deconditioning
having been a child sent to Sunday School
taught a warped religion—Backwoods Christianity
not a single person ever thought about “PREREQUISITE”
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the doctor appeared no older than my oldest t-shirt*
– google search prognosis
self medicated with alcohol and supermarket bought placebos –
the doctors surgery a room where time is no consequence
playing the waiting game while you experience a burning sensation ‘down below’ – old magazines bore you to tears – a celebrity divorce
a holiday in the sun
– a small cut that’s infected and throbbing (insects laying eggs there)
if I stopped growing years ago why are my trousers getting shorter?
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1,000 atomic bombs couldn’t destroy the evidence – tiny black beetles all scurried from under the debris – tiny scurrying black beetles – humans began to live underground
life by candlelight
life by flickering bulb
– evolved new breathing techniques to conserve air,
mole eyes, red sore
the postcard of the chubby girl at the truck stop a reminder of times passed
time that expanded in all directions then just stopped
– everything became unisex
————————–
I’m trying to order my thoughts
—————————-
he was offended by a word and spend three hours rearranging cut out words to form a reply
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love was cut short like his hair when he joined the military* and was given a gun
– soldiers are broken down and rebuilt like Lego men with on/off switches
is all this gibberish?
can the casual observer join the dots?
my oldest t-shirt is green and 23years old
* no hippy soldiers welcome here
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the furnace burns 24hrs a day
the occupants of leviathan have calloused hands & shaved heads
around the clock shifts –
meagre meals of brown meat
– someone brave enough will one day reinvent the wheel –
all these words are my own*
all your words are yours
*unless otherwise stated
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POISONED BY THE TORTURES OF MEMORY
with a hand so guilty of involuntary memory
taught to limit existence
to the very edge of boredom
1,000 atomic bombs
where are the Custodians ?
Tom Hanks seems to have clues
hundreds of millions
free play of every faculty
the old wife—the new wife
the lesbian librarian
pornographic intoxicants
the smell of her guerilla organ
three days without a wash
conversational poetry
autobiographical
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self restraint like driving a car with your footing the brake – when is enough too much? – laboratory tests on unwilling individuals – forced to do fun things until it becomes unfunny
– there must be a line
your face removed from high school year book
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1,000 ATOMIC BOMBS (living in the shadows)
the biological trap of sex
the bondage of employment to support those accidents
never to taste freedom again—the cosmonaut suit no longer fits
endless repetitious and boring hours away from the cave
accompanied by a lack of appreciation
the inner child-writer becomes a lump of coal
powerless to erase the past or create the future
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1,000 atomic bombs
unmapped sexual wetlands
at night the birds make so much noise
that locals often fire shotguns from their porches
or firecrackers, dynamite, or civil war cannons
promissory death notes in the cookie jar
to be paid back at a prearranged time
a time when you will no longer be you
you may be absorbed into your own script
you may go berserk and feed the fish
****foregoing your own identity—your pungent self
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the guilty hand twitched during sleepless night – this phantom limb with a life of its own doing things without permission –
it’s there but invisible like the memories that are there but invisible popping their heads around the street corner of your mind
– the underbelly of this town exposed by 1,000 atomic bombs
– days in the undergrowth intoxicated by other people’s stories
the zero man a concubine to mediocrity
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you were not an accident you were told again and again you were not an accident just an exception
– bondaged by the chains that bind the apron strings of the matriarch to the machine
factory
system of repeated patterns the daily trudge
knee high through treacle
sticky knees attacked by bees
this past the future this moment is exactly what it should be
poets filibustering for love
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POETRY STRAIGHT FROM THE BACK OF A HORSE
regular folks in need of a catastrophe
a sharp knife for those who can pay
a dull knife for everyone else
constant curiosity about that Kennedy woman
the one that married a Greek Sodomite
no bulldozing there—the backdoor opened out not in
10,000 mistakes but not that one
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in the hinterland through the clearing over the railway tracks, past old grain silos, over ruined towns and gentrified cities, past factories and schools,
hospitals and screaming prisons
the locals patrol peripheries with shotguns
– no pleasure at the centre
we re-wrote the scripts each day but re-enact the same scenes over and over –
the actor confused over identity
the Cold War spy with 6 passports
– names blurred into faces
a pre-paid trip by a mysterious benefactor
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you mentioned the Cold War spy with 6 passports
Noah on the Ark—-what about his passport ?
1,000 atomic bombs
he may had Fat-Daddy firecrackers
make a mistake, lose multiple fingers
lucky ? just a little skin off the bones
when it comes to the burning lake of fire
what is a safe aesthetic distance ?
———————————————-
poets mocking religion—that it is self-defeating
that every win is a loss
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bluff and counterbluff—a choice between Donny Osmond
and Marc Bolan
Johnny Boy in tight white satin pants and Beatle boots
butch in the world of Dolly Boys ?
your father said, “damn twinkie-blinks”
those pants disappeared in the wash
you often wounded your parents
with a phantom gun
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SELF-REFERENTIAL POETRY
contradictory conversational poetry
(thoughts stored in refrigerated vaults)
prerecorded messages for the detectives
phantom guns in childhood
the urgency for orgasm
the burning drops of piss
afterwards
highly condensed layers of meaning
“I know that you’ve seen a cameo of yourself”
continuities in comments ?
private and public fantasies
each day some nature of postponement
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SELF-REFERENTIAL POETRY
——–why are we in such a hurry ?
what was pollution from jet planes
is now gunsmoke from firesticks
white man come with violence and language
build libraries but stock no books
my local library has three books
(+) KING JAMES BIBLE
(+) two books of poetry by Robert Frost
apocalyptic religious mythology
and poetry from someone floating in stale time
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the poster reads, “freedom through fantasy”
I try to laugh but others don’t join in
laughter may interfere with postponement of death
they try to laugh so as not to laugh
they love and make love in the same fashion
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ALL THAT INFORMATION FROM THE HUSSY-SLUT POSITIONING OF THE LEGS
trying to avoid sharp corners and people with icebergs in their eyes
patchouli oil gratification
is it possible ?
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they sent the bulldozers in
scooped up shanty town – displaced bodies starting a new chapter
– you had a knife but they had a sword –
– a cursory glance through the history books – fascinated by the bleeding princess
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dressed up to amuse
winkle picker shoes cast shadows long
tight pants reveal the circumcision screaming hordes tug at your hem
Marc Bolan went to my school*
my dad never understood
*he did
he really did
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all poetry is self referential
( what else could it be? )
all the words are stored in machines, scratched on paper,
hours spent in the 80s trying to record funny answering machine messages
– relics and time machines, dusty antiques and a 1,000 computers at the bottom of the sea –
I’ve had a cameo in my life, scene 4…and I’ve seen my doppelgänger: he was better looking
– droplets of piss and the burning sensation GET THE LOTION
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self-referential—-spying through door cracks
watching people in the restroom abuse themselves
trying to judge the quality of their performance
deliciously obscene—-wrong! wrong! wrong!
a little saccharine makes the poison sweet
Satan with a shovel-full and a loaded gun
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acrobatic white woman wanted for sex
must be able to write poetry
must be able to wear pantyhose
and smell clean—really clean
NO stockings or garter-belts
No German to be spoken
kleptomania OK
exhibitionism OK
new permutations OK
****may smoke cigarettes but only Italian cigarettes
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virgin or near-virgin gymnast wanted for sex
open gender—plumbing not important
must desire intoxicating experiences
artful simplicity—but not to the Robert Frost level
nor anything close to E.A. Poe
weightlessness in bed is a plus
eroticized violence is a NO-NO
no scissors or knives
no ropes or duct tape
no need to be a full-length novel
****overheated longings and a 30 day supply (last birthday wish)
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self-referential loneliness
mood swings like a wasp sting on the eye
——-a conversational novelist
——-a conversational poet
the blacked-out streets of desire
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jet plane pollution
chem trail patterns criss cross the western sky line – people with tin foil hats fear the gamma rays — my local library has fast wifi access and books that talk — to lazy to read — the last remaining book just balances a table where a man spends all day looking for the last clue in a crossword
–day after day
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Beatle boy in his Cuban heels
three inches taller – the only boy in town dressed in black —
singing songs in an English accent
transatlantic sound landed in a town where they burnt records and didn’t dance*
vinyl pyre and the energetic dance of fear –
*only making love on specific days and always in the dark
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avoid the people with iceberg eyes, avoid those that tell you the content of their freezer, those that quote sport statistics and those that play with guns –
those that don’t have a favourite band, those that carry around stones – avoid people with sharp corners, those that melt and perspire
– those that have never heard jazz or played Russian bingo
all memories changed a week after the abduction – UFOs seen over the grain silo, you know walk past phone mats and you think you can hear conversations, a lump on your forearm that wasn’t there before, the dimensions of the pyramids
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sold 4,000 records to a man who played them backwards and found the clue – decoded the secret of leviathan –
washroom frenzy at 5:15pm
– a tip of the hat and a spoonful of sugar
– baby thrown from a moving car
the freeway moved under you like VHS tape –
the hidden room on the Mayflower, secrets
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the guy on the phone said that he and his wife
were drab and disagreeable
he wanted to know if I had anything NAZI
for sale
I explained again about the phonograph albums
and that I would take cash only
no checks from South Africa
or money orders from Canada
I also stressed that I was not into bondage
spanking, attack dogs, or fancy knots
I knew that they were psychopathically cheap
Andy Warhol would have said, “EXPLOITATIVE”
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BUZZWORDS FALL FROM THE BACK OF JETS
clues like the pellets from the backside of rabbits
copyright your crossword puzzle
given a choice between a long-term companion
and a long-term copyright
men and women go for the copyright
3 out of 5 prayers are blessings for all the copyrights
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the doctor discovered that they only had one pain pill left
it was one of those tiny pellets they give cats before a flight
I swallowed it dry— expecting nothing
the best I could think
“I might survive”
———————————————-
———————————————-
priestly silence
I needed something to keep my tongue inside
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apply now
24hrs answering machine – leave a message –
will arrange interviews
– must be able to write poetry
– must supply own pens
(do not dress like a martyr )
– will not be able to refund travel expenses (enjoy the view)
– all things considered
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GSOH
non-smoker
must have own teeth (7 or more) – agreed safe words shared –
documented history required (will need to see paperwork) – send examples of work –
– all weapons will be made safe
when we reframe the narrative
– a stanza here a stanza there
no bruises
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applied for the job as close ally and let the algorithms do the rest – three weeks later turned them against each other
– now enemies and fresh bogeymen lurked behind corners and in shadows that moved in the opposite way to nature –
blacked out for a moment in the cinema foyer and felt I was wrapped in a duvet
floating in a canoe through the veins of a whale
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an answering machine that has a button
for inverted commas
habitual plagiarism feeds itself
****anything worth stealing ?
her grin had all the warmth of a well placed finger
a thousand locks from here to interior sloppy thighs
the keys are handy but time is the negative factor
virile for 15 minutes then the dinosaur refuses to spit
virile for 15 minutes then the dinosaur expires
you notify Steven Spielberg
but he is in the same boat
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but what if she is some type of carnivorous harlot
from a Michael Crichton novel ?
ripe embryos for your seed
people think that they may be sterile
but great writers can create miracles
a full load of jism with fatso swimmers
****just think—a bumper sticker saying
BABY BIRDS ON BOARD
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MAKING LOVE LIKE RUBBING STICKS TOGETHER
the family sex manual has pages missing
undernourished genitals
conveyor-belt intercourse
squealing squaddies
(padding, canopy, one-word insertion)
brace yourself baby bird
15 minutes
then the rewrite team
will take over
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WHAT TYPE OF POETRY DOES ONE WRITE ?
raised in a semiliterate household
12 miles from a village
on a dirt/mud road
surrounded by cousins
go-go girls at a “all nude all the time” establishment
waitresses where the front door is also the back door
menfolk who drink and smoke and deal in meth
who black-market deer meat and ginseng root
where “stairway to heaven” is played on a banjo
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went to a party with color photographs
of a 1,000 atomic bombs
in my pocket
the host was ranting about American rhythms
somehow, and I don’t know how
he had confused Robert Frost for Mark Twain
rather than get upset
I thought about my dead relatives
who had dug coal
and died of black lung
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SHE was happy to get the extra money
for $75 all she had to do
was pat the gentleman on the head
as he crawled around on the floor
pat him on the head
and say, “good baby”
after about 25 minutes
the Poet would stand up and leave
(all writers were half-baked)
SHE had a thousand questions
SHE had a special tenderness
for the baby
at her age, her life was stuffed with NO-NO-NO
senior citizen fallacy mongering
SHE never read poetry with her head
or her heart
SHE refused to wear diapers or hearing aids
SHE continued to touch herself
although there was no more arousal
orgasms long gone
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the passageway was crowded with ancient people
each one REMINISCENT
a life worthy of amusement park nourishment
nothing green or red just “prose brown”
their literature more uncomfortable than their shoes
who could savor the pokiness of the menfolk ?
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please don’t mention the clearing over the railroad tracks
or the path past the grain silos
the coming-and-going
the fetching-and-carrying
the Germans enjoy a murderous parade
such shameful fantasies of their demise
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a bug detector
on constant scan for listening devices
grenades under the pillow
sexual gadgetry
and other hi-tech mischief
orchestrated lovemaking
hand-to-hand wrestling
aggressive libido
seemingly inexhaustible
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Sylvia Plath with her skin brighter then a Nazi lampshade
available on eBay (no certificate of authenticity) – luminous skin like she’d spent a week at the Curie house –
– Nazi lampshade numbered and bright – previous owners dead or missing in a South American mountain range –
– mysterious online bids
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copyrights will run out one day and the they will feast on the words
waiting in shadows for the day
trick or treating
at pyjama parties the girl decide to dress like whorish vampires, sluttish pilgrims
– inside the pumpkins head the light gently fades
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bugs in the system retracing thoughts – when you used an old typewriter they knew what you were writing – they listeners for the sound of your finger hitting the key then the key hitting the paper – it was all in the timing –
precise calculations
an old stopwatch – no fancy technology – just words on paper
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the final pill was being sold online – Kentucky pharmacists made backwood placebos – tiny pellets for those with four legs – fur in throat (honeymoon routines)
– the best I could think was “nothing” –
a cartoon bubble of thought that needs filling
the pill was rough going down
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the answering machine had a stammer …I gave up half way through…my train of thought was derailed
I had thieves with sticky fingers inside my brain (in the film the camera panned back to an interior shot of me sitting in chair looking at a vintage phone
it never rings
in the background a car falls off a cliff)
a slight welt bruised blue thigh
this whole thing is just nonsense without the green screen
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the rewrite team draft in the extras
part time waitress at the coffee shop
that actor who forgot his lines the transcript had pages missing
that typewriter with no vowels
– the back up team drafted in with tattoos
– brace yourself for the tremors
(INSERT THE NAME OF YOUR FIRST LOVE HERE)
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I had a typewriter afraid of direct sunlight
——————————————————-
poetry is often written in a hostile environment
try to isolate yourself from an audience
nudity is acceptable but only to a degree
no Christmas carols
or lengthy conversations
the art cinema of life is too much
lack of detail is important
strive for stripped-down material
permit the reader to fill in information
often, the poet experiences a voice-over commentary
this is a victory—listen to yourself
****who knows better what should be said ?
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THE PILL WAS ROUGH GOING DOWN
Good Lord, say that a thousand times in a year
you feel like an image on a TV screen
any spectators are never seen
televised people are blind
in that sense
one direction actor-spectator relationships
“TO SEE WITHOUT BEING SEEN”
———————————————–
———————————————–
being the only white male in the tribe
how could one not feel like an outsider ?
at night the streets are crowded
with adolescents
their favor or disfavor
could be bought
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ALL WEAPONS WILL BE MADE SAFE
SHE was flesh and blood
but her crotch seemed to be a weapon
“stay away—I may reproduce !”
the man on the street has only one thought
dribble the seed and run
****the poet writes about LOVE separated off
by an unbridgeable moat
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THAT DAMN DIONYSIAC ANSWERING MACHINE
24 hour answering machine with footlights
solitary individuals leave messages
lovers and immediate family
have tones of psychological tension
often they seem out of place
SACRILEGIOUS
****the phosphorescent flashing light of home
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THE INACCURACY OF UNESSENTIALS
what a mouth full
the mainland without a footprint
beholders of poetry nesting in the trees
sometimes it was difficult to sleep at night
the burlesque was loud and easy to visit
a place where the dark side was revealed
not a single grain of concern
no life after death
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for large sums of money
it is simple to set up reciprocal relations
the complexity of human passion
daily psycho-critiques on WordPress
vile functions on the internet
enemas before birthday cake
****someone wrote on one of the birthday cards
“next year— the passive suffering becomes the active suffering”
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how old before they grow vaginal teeth ?
boys at the gym talk about castrating vaginal grip
—————————————————————
—————————————————————
agents signaling through the flames
UFO interrogations
of a sort
openly revealing private areas
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street scum with lung plague, kidney plague
possibly sex box plague
scary red nipples
smoking outside
poverty-ridden cigarettes
closed economy cigarettes
two inch butts on the sidewalk
outside the Love Motel
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street scum with the urge to escape
unbearable tension
a life of short-circuited relationships
daily trauma with the money demon hungry
(+) one must feed the money demon
****you feed the hungry money demon
and you pray for slow digestion
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the lady at the library
said that there are no more originals (ONLY COPIES)
men have been known to fabricate book titles for the librarian
to watch her surf the library catalog
to squirm in a carnivalesque manner
regularization of randomness
(+) everything one can get away with
****the anticipated honeymoon
is one million times better
than repeating the honeymoon
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NOSTALGIA WAS MUCH MORE DIFFICULT TO SWALLOW
———-any attraction to the past——————-
spoons and forks and fancy knives
fashionable American television
sarcastic drivers on the express
pungent sexual odors
on the elevator
the hint of
“NEVER LINGER”
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moments of pure voyeurism
the camera catches you unaware
several images are used in a fanzine
you are caught up in the perpetual (unresolvable) paradox
of your image
IS IT REALLY YOU ?
IT HAS TO BE YOU !!!
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THE FEAR OF MANIPULATIVE FEMININE WOMEN
fears about gender—nonphysical castration
hints of transvestism —circus transvestism
the circus as a battleground for Lucifer
siphoning vital fluids from men as employment
women who look like John Wayne
rough-and-tumble women
you can smell the saddle
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all first drafts are written in invisible ink to hide embarrassment and harsh critique – the ribbon of my typewriter laces my shoes – the more functions the less likely to be discarded
– it’s how things survive
– a bird that can’t fly
engineless car
– Christmas is around the corner and sponsored by multinational companies
screaming into a pillow
nocturnal exercise
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POETRY TO DIVIDE SOCIETY
Robert Frost was quoted,
“I got your gender in one hand
and your identity in the other”
not one single book in the library
has him with an “active”
penetrative voice
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Robert Frost in a circle-jerk
an elite group of scientists
(scientific sizable apparatus)
secret effeminate males from the pool hall
overoptimistic Robert Frost
pubic hair and devil horns
the quintessence of poetic masculinity
PROTOTYPE POET
borrowed behavioral styles
——redefinition——
————————————————–
————————————————–
watching the facial reactions of Robert Frost
practitioners in the circle-jerk
one can only imagine
leaves colored by lustful feelings
many of the trees were angry
the discharge of semen
in any non-procreative context
was a violation of nature
the trees were knee-deep in nature
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safety catch on all explosives removed
nuclear submarines
phallic metal under Siberian frost frozen
she was frigid &
warned you off with a wagging finger
—all the neighbourhood dogs sniffing at her crutch–*
– erotic metaphor lost on the Sunday school congregation
*here comes sickness
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24 hour answering machine in 57 languages
(some in morse code
some in binary – 46 minutes to hear a full message)
– I call up once a day just to hear her voice – when I read her postcards I do it in her voice – solitary figures seek companionship like a lost ship seeks the lonely lighthouse beam – out of place with all the other white people
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Unessentials vs essentials
wants and needs based analysis
I WANT I WANT I WANT I WANT
baby bird swooping down and stealing words
bird nest stanza high in the rooftops of trees
– the leaves drop in this season the leaves drop until the tree is naked –
no burlesque here*
nipple tassles spinning like
propellers
*its all burlesque
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Robert Frost in a circle-jerk
a gentle breeze and a touch of the wind
heavy breathing and the smell of Aeolian lube
pressurized scrotums ready to dispense
“to the open fields little seeds”
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after masturbating Robert Frost wrote
“my own voice cheered me”
like others before him
he climbed the mountain
and returned with new words
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it was a toss-up
a new bra for the old lady
or a bulletproof vest
a love relationship
pure accident
pure psychosis
both
when it comes to poetry
it has little to do with what is said
and everything to do with who is saying it
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the teeth hidden behind fur traps
the fear of entrance
even worse, the fear of withdraw
in mapless territories castrated with blunt knifes
tight suite with wide lapels
private areas, well tended but out of bounds
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rattling lungs of those rattling down the street – eyes fixed on phones and footwalks – the poverty cigarettes of Winston Smith smoking while bombs full – everyone behaving like detectives-
rattling lungs fatigued
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the money demon
money tainted germs through intestinal tubes thick hairy forests lost with the trauma about to begin
– timing the contractions with a sundial
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strengthen the spines
want to be wrapped around her like a bandage – hoping the meat is thoroughly defrosted – garnering opinions on hiking boots – a tax on stupidity – drinking and looking out of the window – deliver driver with a box steps out of a van and moves with purpose to a door he’s never seen before – turnstiles spinning like a ghost is leaving the building – I think I’m growing – and a book laid down for a minute looks like a bird about to take flight leaving the words scattered on the table –
– there was contact, there is evidence of this – there was
contact – in a field of cows of wet grass – landing marks –
let time fold into itself like flightless origami
paper birds –
the continual roadworks reveal the intestines beneath -sluices and the pipes that feed and take away –
and how could you know what was under the camouflage?
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it was really dark—a public shared darkness
everyone questioned the key ingredient
was it a doughnut
or a simple Willie Wonka ?
it was silent
perhaps a maiden fart
THANK GOD it wasn’t a Joplin rag
with four tubas
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I don’t know what to think
about your table
growing extra legs
it sleeps in a darker area
where light is blocked
most people are insecure
because they were missing
a parent in childhood
one parent
one generalized parent
LIFE finds one straggling behind
quick glances in a mirror
a rolled-up pancake creature
careening headlong into another day
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there is a time and place for nostalgia: you’ll back on this time and recall
– attracted to the memory of the past but not the actual facts –
– the magnetic pull
gravitational shifts –
a queue at the toll booth as they try and escape the city in advance of the announcement – never linger
and keep moving
stay off the moors
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the lines drawn years ago blurred and well trodden – angry dinosaur not happy that they’ve been left behind –
he feminine & masculine she & they – blurred – a woman with a penis and man with breasts – confusion at the toilet door cubicle entrance confusion at the exit
IS IT SANITISED
– IS IT SANITISED? –
– x in the box
a missing chromosome
JOHN WAYNES saddle on eBay
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circle – jerk collapsed as the weakest member walked away – red faced
ashamed at what he had done –
not everything is written in books
not everything comes with an instruction manual –
– like being blindfolded in a library and being forced to pick a book –
many people in Florida have hidden agendas –
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little jimmy with a missing parent made one from wood and junk – rather motionless but with a clock for a face – smiling at 10 to 2 –
he confided in it and the clock tick tocked with the beat of his heart – that once sturdy table he
and walked away to paint a map of the world
– two parent families and their dysfunctional kids starting fires at the side of road –
a dead cat found in the back yard
a trench coat in the wardrobe – drunk mummy at 3:25pm –
life finds staggering ways to shock
a tunnel between Ohio and Florida
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those fires started on the side of the road
they were eensy-weensy fires
the color of the flames
like a million goldfish flopping
————————————–
masturbating with a notion of wetness
how things move and cling
YOUNG AND SOPPING WET
****oddly flavored youth
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questions at the pool hall
“how watertight is that tunnel between Ohio and Florida ?”
“how many swearwords were dropped in its construction ?”
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as a child you were paid to think that the missing parent
was REPUGNANT
that he was off somewhere romancing a younger woman
life with the missing parent had been slapstick farce at best
any degree of happiness was essentially proportional
to the degree of emotional involvement with both parents
—————————————————
although Robert Frost liked to measure things
he never came to grips with “acquaintance space”
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those fires begat bigger fires that could set the world ablaze – Lincoln would turn in his grave –
goldfish flopping
gasping for air to fill their tiny lungs –
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old hippy poets have lasted forever
they were designed and built
not just assembled like young skunks
back in the day, men were proud of their fittings
strutting around with a huge codpiece
on the front of their breeches
****one could take it off and air their nuts
with no consequence whatsoever
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watertight tunnel as deep as a giraffe is high – a 1,000 Charles Bronson look-a-likes tunnelling away-
dirt deposited through trouser legs –
Mexicans with motorbikes ready to jump the wall –
the great escape to the pool hall
– anecdotes shared
– stories stored by the detectives
– little pieces of puzzles
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a rotating procession of parental replacements
some to drunk
others with small hands
some with a police record
others with pin eyes
– a comedy of errors in partner selection –
stunted growth was a phrase often mention – the single parent and the child with the burnt matches
– negative attachment and a shake of the head –
a birthday present of a one way ticket and a leather suitcase
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ROBERT FROST OUTSIDE LATE AT NIGHT
the autumn trees were being stripped bare
with his lizard lips he knew resuscitation
was out of the question
should he collapse
there would be no tomorrow
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a one way ticket to an eroticized location
a slow distillation of thoughts
a constant reduction
mocking lip-suckers
bespectacled library workers
literature full of backsides
spank magazines
with coupons
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one never knows how far northwest
of London
that famous circle resides
the one that collects information
even wayward poetry
billions of strings of pedestrianisms
“your momma jokes”
everything gets reinterpreted
leaches on your wang
vaginal ulcers
lonesome roads
misleading distractions involving Kentucky
naked children playing by the road
their tiny flashing eyes
5 or 6 skeletal dogs
some with hair some without
FOILS OF DISTRACTION
(anonymous collaborators)
obstructive Russians
trying to wed copyists
one way tickets to Cheltenham
with a big old shiny ring
fiber-optic and beyond
information exhaustion
buffoons who live where nothing grows
what they got to say ?
“GOD IS GOOD”
everybody in the tribe is ugly
crap food—crap sleeping quarters
deformed turkey-neck foreskins
and yet
every word is recorded
monitored by artificial intelligence
just mention thermonuclear
the temptress of the Talmud
thermonuclear egotism
something to be egotistical about
just mention Robert Frost
and there will be a knock at the door
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when I got that note
from the
Government Communications Headquarters
stating that they were tracking my words
searching for an aspect of my work
which
revealed the greatest amount of surface
they said that I was more than myself
that I was multiple and not safe
****that I should be a caged bird (?)
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the plight of the baby bird
cheap socks and angry feet
not a single Jane Austen in romance
unhampered kissing spells
public, private—outdoors
always in the direction
of the narrow gap
expeditions for anything wet
WOOZINESS
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the “WORK WIFE”
contributes to the imbalance of life
sometimes it is as if she has rubbed spices
in the cave
as if her body has become a warm pocket
the love-knots squeezed out
and saved
****innocent jism
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the naked trees and the shortening days makes one think of the grave –
– how should we collapse into this moment?
– how should we celebrate these days here?
Robert Frost with frost bite outside looking through your window – the new snowman
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no one ever argues with me
when I say that Robert Frost
was a third-rate friend
I do not even know what third-rate means
it is just something people say
Robert was the ugly duckling of the Frost family
he was like pizza on Thanksgiving
or serious flirtation in a strip club
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in London everyone ignores everyone – mobile neck strain repetitive finger ache
distance means nothing
and the river is dirty and brown like unwashed kids down the diamond mine – skeletal digs gnash &
pull at the leash
Pavlovian like my erection at thoughts of her the blood throbs and rushes to the tip
the point
– the underground tunnels and tubes where my relatives slept to avoid explosions
– the opinions of everyone filtered through a prism of acceptable truth
– everyone I work with laugh when I say I write
– every word is recorded
and feed down tubes to ears in Latvia, Prague, Florida
–
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teenage kisses clashing teeth – the idea of love Vs the actuality of love – chasing it like Ahab chased his whale –
– the public persona of a private man –
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the work wife washes dishes at home and stands there
hands in soap suds
rooted to the spot – picking at dried meat glued to china plates –
poor secondary wife
filled with a sickness
of memories of red knees –
the Russian speaking companion
the words that you just can’t translate
Kubrick in space
(three weeks ago I was lost in a vacuum)
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all the jails are full and all the libraries are empty
– split demographic of a retiring nation – Nebraskan sunset in Florida –
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where I’m from Robert Frost is know as Bob Frost – an altogether different beast
obscenity mother I was once inside – yellow mountains full the coffee cup – she always got your name wrong
– Spielberg called he wants you for a remake of Close Encounters – he knows you have knowledge of the landings
I once tried to list all the words in my vocabulary and to count all the vowels in these comments
the pole at the strip bar was shiny but it smelt
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what does one coat a doodley-squat cake with ?
——–bob frost
wrecked cars, stoves, washing machines, refrigerators
the front yard is full—scrap metal
lawn bric-a-brac—airline pilots treasure it
in Nebraska they look for cattle bones
old age is not an option
painter, philosopher, poet
almost bogus
accumulated cultural rubbish
identities learned from the internet
stains from something sacred
on the pillow
multi-color phlegm
the nurse laughed when I showed it to her
“you’ve lived so long with that”
————-what did SHE mean ?
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that time Robert Frost took a summer job counting beans for NASA
– a small warehouse in Nebraska of cattle bones and birds –
a solitude not seen since Thoreau – rainbow spit
coloured phlegm
– a man with a limp
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HOLY COW
nothing like a one way ticket and a suitcase
for your birthday
all those years at the Leviathan
then after the fire
you started selling shirts on the street
“get your identification cards here”
the millions of mistakes
that underscored that sense of insignificance
yet it supplied the pinto beans and cornbread
postcards from Kentucky
relatives all cranked up
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my identification card was dog eared and the picture was a younger me with youthful hair
– at the gates they said there was no correlation between the picture and the face in front of them – I was frayed and dog eared – rejected at the entrance
a belly of pinto beans
raw pork
cornbread for poorer relations who send food reviews on postcards
severance pay from leviathan
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the railroad track joined up the hinterland – places in the corner of maps – from the time they thought California was an island
– grain silos dot to dot across the horizon, a stop sign and some soft erotism
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as one soars over London
there are plenty of hollow spaces
dots among the frantic verbal surfaces
tainted and germ familiar—nothing sterile
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I tried to wave at the insects below
but they were too occupied with hysterias
perhaps too transparent with my sentimental ways
just another warlock on a flying carpet—a handful of dust
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I remember people complaining about the smell of Catholics
thinking I wasn’t Catholic—I relaxed feeling safe
but I could smell myself—a sinful odor at best
a small child in the seat next to me
was coloring with crayons
a Jonestown-style massacre
he and I were there on the ground
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I thought I was an actor playing a part in Ulysses
but I was just caught up in someone’s neuroses
the sex and the drugs—just exploratory sidelines
constantly questioned and derided by reality
asked to keep a codebook
and then tortured for such
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soothing syrup
poured down the backside
a lube with holding energy
each day brings sodomy
and ragged poetry
****words in a peculiar frame
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hosed off in a cheap motel
Dollar Store champagne
a fantastic grape drink
the bookshelves no longer contained books
nostalgias and regressions instead
pathos borrowed or misplaced
evidence of photography
victimized images in frames
the police wanted to see nudity
unworkable ideologies
possibly polo-necked movie stars
an assortment of genitals
chubby buttocks and balloon-like breasts
men on pogo sticks bouncing howlers
anything with an air of anthropological disgrace
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in between the hollow spaces
there is nothing ,
silence like the space between the musical notes in that song that makes you cry –
–
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the insects were to busy looking down – burrowing down
eating shit
multiple eyes they can see behind
and round the corners
– I was hysteric once
there are pills for that
I rattled when I walked
–
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sometimes men crawled into a hollow spot
and dried out (a dry-out)
a few dry-outs in what passed as a hospital
the locals referred to it as the horse-pital
addiction gripped and gripping
one leg shorter I guess
ghosts with books
that they can’t turn the pages
disapproval after disapproval
I wanted to write poetry but I was too busy
life was one ticklish task after another
God made me cross my t’s
and dot my i’s
the enemy introduced me to drink
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not all Catholics smell but some do – it’s only reasonable to think so – the smell isn’t that of a babies head,
freshly flowered rose,
a French cigarette exported illegally across boarders,
the smell is strange and damp and sticks in your nose –
sticks like sin and cast the first stone –
child eating crayons purple teeth and colourful poop
–
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she promised romance
lip-sync that baby bird
r-o-m-a-n-c-e
it may take something to agitate her
no, not a punch in the stomach
or $50 in one dollar bills
passionate soft kisses
nuzzles, a firm grip
eye contact
lots of eye contact
torment brings reward
make time stretch out
what do you smell
when you pull in close
to the back of her neck ?
PSYCHOANAYZE the moment
****follow the map south
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mimicking the delivery of the colorful poop
at the tea counter at work
with a pretend microphone
you circle the room
Roy Orbison singing in your head
Roy Orbison straight from your mouth
sexual sparks like the Fourth of July
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the first clue:
SADOMASOCHISTIC magazines everywhere
hollow spaces and the desire to finger them
the sound of a metronome as you jack
painful attraction
feeling like a swollen puddle in public
can we stand in the shadows ?
can we hold hands and not speak ?
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when the bugs consume the manure
they hear sounds not associated with nature
combinations of bizarre elements
simultaneously repellent and fascinating
watching the insects
can be both frightening
and amusing
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one never knows
bugs eating poop like they are on holiday
I tell you the Catholics have the scent of sin
I can’t look directly at them—cadavers from Hell
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no cure for the Catholic smell
one just has to crawl back into the ground
the spreading of words
poetry becomes a disease
vulnerable readers
the potential of corruption
tied to the top of the ambulance
who’s gonna drive me home ?
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I step outside the room
where a scientific discussion of London
is being played out as if on stage
I am romancing Ingrid Bergman
she is young and beautiful
a true sensory universe
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they wrapped you in yellow crime tape
it was your birthday
or was it your last day of employment
at the Leviathan ?
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i thought i was an actor in Platoon
four clicks up river
swatting away flies with a machine gun – no sex
just drugs and dead comrades and a smell of petroleum
– underground tunnels hid secrets
each day was torture –
moist air and disease
i sat under trees waiting form baby bird to fly me home
i awoke in darkdown six years later screaming
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you were found cocooned in DarkTown
a living poem from a larger community
“The Works of Art”
readers buy into your story
it is pure folklore
a solitary beacon
in the world of corruption and crime
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to mimic the delivery of poop at work
how bizarre
dark acts in public
somewhere between charm and nightmare
the baby bird unraveled
visible to an audience
—————————-
for all those who questioned your poetic compositions
vivid images and rhythms possibly stolen from DarkTown
foghorns from trouser legs
peculiarities outside the sense of smell
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the hard-luck poet
“they say that some men will violently pursue the word”
nothing suspicious about dark passions in Dark Town
anything that smolders with sensuous possibilities is welcome
———————————————————————————
taking a colorful poop at the tea counter at work
put it on television—give the audience a close-up view
even critics may find aesthetic potential
****some say “art” some say “craft”
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never underestimate the intelligence of street scum
roadhouse artistic philosophy—hauntingly original
spirits and demons and mythic motorcycle characters
cartoonist sex in the outdoors
anywhere that perversion can lurk
(+) a brothel with Canadian ladies with large thighs
(+) a seedy pool hall with more pinball machines than tables
neon-lighted words at the truck stop
commercial showers around the corner
straight men shower with their clothes on
men who spill hard-boiled jargon
wear nothing at all
first-timers are always apprehensive
disposable income makes for a better time
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a spotlight on episodic structure in poetry
conversational poetry (ever-expanding)
complications intervene
that sort of thing piques reader curiosity
****senselessness over anything academic
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dollar store champagne burnt when it went down – bloated stomach ready to pop –
overhead I heard warplanes –
the people of the future will only see it in photographs –
the police had no power in this jurisdiction- nostalgic thoughts of billy clubs and strangers blood
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men crawl into holes (real and metaphorical) –
men crawl into shadows –
i tried to dry out
I tried to give up the bad things – but I enjoy bad things so I continue –
I said it before that I’ve stopped growing but my trousers seem to be shorter –
– ghosts with books with ghost writers and invisible words
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you tried to analyse the moment but one part of you overrode the other part
the weaker part, the part loved by your mother
– time always stretched out with her
– you couldn’t time it with conventional apparatus-a broken watch is right twice a day –
– the hair on your neck
erect
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blind Roy Orbison dead eyes behind his dark glasses-* – his guide dog alway off stage, to the left trained not to bark –
constantly mistaken for Del Shannon (names that fly over the heads of the youth) –
– Kanye is no Roy –
*blind Roy had never seen a pretty woman
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mechanical movement
in time like a marching band
– hand on the root
stamping boots that reflect and shine –
spit and polish
spit and polish
increased lung capacity
– military man masochist man
monthly subscription to certain magazines – he prefers in old school pictures on paper with staples, nothing online buffering ruined the rhythm –
we hold hands and face the waves
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under the microscope the observable data behaved like we predicted
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cold cadavers warm up in hell
you can see them sweat
– all tainted with our own sins the Catholics don’t have a monopoly on it –
the smell of Sunday service, sulphate & disdain
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I tried to analyze each moment
but all I could think of
was urbanites with large numbers
of disposable socks
unmarked matching socks
actual toes and heels
————————–
upscale urbanities
with unlimited socks
with no restrictions
about purchasing more
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marbles for eyes
embedded with clues
two levels of mysterious subtext
crayon artwork from children
depicting the absurdity of life
saccharine kisses—hits and misses
reversed expectations
the hand with its history
of self-defeat
go to bed
it gets busy
no body to say “NO”
nostalgic squirts
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rooted in the sins of the Catholics
nightmares
juxtaposed with brutality and comedy
laughing at other people
until we were the other people
life was an interstate highway
with rest areas
men on parole
men double-crossed
constant psychological baiting
chasing and being chased
incendiary intercourse
DVD motion pictures
endless sex with scarecrows
nudging the limits
double penetration
leather gloves
technicolored poop
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the smell wafts like incense through the pews – the burial plot I reserved is cold and frosted over
– worms in the mud
O’reader with thine milky eye
gaze upon these words
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I was young once
a baby then a child
I fell in love with a communist and we held hands and discussed the dialectic
historical materialism and the spectre that is haunting Europe –
in a way they discussed a world of pure numbers
of pure science
a truly beautiful world moved
in the alleyways of an expanding city
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the larger community are all divisible by one – a amalgam of voices, noice, material, thoughts, jingling pockets of change, none of them works of art but all of them unique – after all
it’s in the eye of the beholder – folklore belongs in enchanted forests, not modern cities of monorails and robot policeman
I opened the door
I had to leave
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after an incident in the work toilets
you got the nickname “the elephant”- solo pisser
– the humidity in there meant you left with a sheen of sweat on your top lip –
the smell stuck and you couldn’t wash it out
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the close up revealed cracks beneath the surface – you could see the glue that binds –
a poet but only in words –
and then the nagging doubts creep up like a sinister uncle at thanks giving – have I shown my hand? – am I really a man of words? am I a man of MY words? –
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the pool hall with no pool tables is just a hall, an empty space – I miss those days – those days of myths – when Greece was just rocks and ideas – I am drinking on my own and cutting out the eyes of childhood photos – remember heroes in the 50s smoked, drank whisky, beat their wives, hated communists – hard boiled black and white – I am drinking for two – I shower with my eyes closed so it’s all a surprise –
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THE PLEASURES OF THE UNEXPECTED
eating crayons and having colorful poops
taking them to work and placing them on display
someone said that it was an act of the subconscious
photos were sent to the Academy of Fine Arts
HEIGHTENED REALITY
your supervisor frowned on it
Modern Day Diapers published a critique
“peculiar and ridiculous but heart warming
perhaps seasonal exhibits/holiday displays ?”
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Micheal Caine, a man different but always the same – walking flarf – a thousand different words but they all sound the same –
nothing academic
all primordial
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WALKING FLARF (as in W-A-L-K-I-N-G F-L-A-R-F)
going from ramshackle small town
to ramshackle small town
making love to all the women
one glorious marvel to the next
oozing slots to explore
from flaxen hair
to bald blue monkey butts
no room for squeamishness
reprehensible acts upon request
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readers at Flarf Headquarters
have taken notice of Mr. Caine’s
working class cockney accent
for an outsider, the guys at the pool hall
thought he was okay as a butler in Batman
some of the older gents recalled his brother David
the famous “Nuthouse Flamboyant Flame”
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Mr. Caine once vomited at hearing Robert Frost glorify nature
he thought sodomy was worth the ticket
he enjoyed a good coffeehouse descriptor
always amazed at readers disproportionate sensitivity
Americans are so squeamish about foreskins
geographically—not a good location for cheese
**** “piddle gets on me shoes” (DarkTown jitters)
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repugnant poetry full of rainbows
without censure, sometimes with warts
other times worse
childhood sweetheart Flarf
a Mexican porno plot
not yellow hair coated
Swedish style
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you knew it was an obvious lie
100% synthetic poetry
not even Flarf is 100% synthetic
—————————————–
Elvis impersonator poetry
hikes along the brown trail
wardrobe poop
sightings of Anal Nessie
possibly misinterpreted
poetry replaces actual life
ELVIS IMPERSONATOR POETRY
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copying Elvis Presley’s lyrics
and selling them to Flarf poets
————————————–
sensory overload baby bird
gotta get some hip-swinging going on
laughing at the frayed status of other poets
they will never reach the decadent mark
real life with its avalanche of horrors
tricks of fate and other cruelties
****self-conscious cutlery
(+) trims on the hour
(+) slices on the half-hour
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more mixed signals than a bootleg Flarf poem
written on a napkin labeled “meltdown”
bizarre bedroom behavior
relentless drilling
graphic passion
Roy Orbison touching down below
lip-syncing himself with innocent understanding
standing there trancelike—bright red and throbbing
his flesh was singing and his scrotum was swinging
somewhere in the darkness God was listening
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the phenomenon of the missing sock – two go in only one leave – the one legged charities door knock to collect odd socks –
rich urbanites and rappers only wear socks once ( this I know)
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marbled eyed child crayon drawing goon drew a human as big as a house
a big yellow scribble, a circle of yellow sun – the therapist* spent hours looking for meaning and sub text – went to bed with a head full of mess
*therapist, a small away from sex crime (the rapist)
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the structure of poetry
episodes
drama from a tortured life
living in an industrial spider web of squalor
battlegrounds without war
sometimes the lab animals escape
the desire for pocket change grows too strong
tremendous sadness left behind
death made up to look simplistic
just some bleach and water
the red goes away
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question yourself no more
go out and purchase 12 pairs
of expensive socks
wait until Christmas
and surprise yourself
TELL THE CLERK THAT YOU WANT DISTINCTIVE SOCKS
nothing sentimental or cumbersome
explosively bold colors—-YES
the comfort of compressed clouds
****standing at the tea counter at work
you can casually flash your new-found personality
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folklore like a second skin
attitudes about jazz
all efforts to bridge that chasm
they say that the path is darkening
that DarkTown exists outside the capacity
of white men with strong arms
of white men with strong lips
****intelligence is the sworn enemy
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the church had scarecrows outside to ward off the unbelievers – tuned away at the gates – your tithe refused no down payments excepted
– I had leather gloves I left one on the ark –
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WORD SUBSTITUTIONS
an entire poem using word substitutions
no validity for translation
educated readers measuring
themselves first
word-for-word mapping
surface deformities
mesmerized by moonlight
symbolic love and factual love
female sideshow gimmicks
genital skin without color
the smell of toiletries
what was pink in youth
odd shades of gray
a curtain of boar-like hair
individual strands
guitar strings
no visible cuts or bruises
no “crime scene” tape
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a poem covered with word substitution gravy
———-word substitution gravy (?)
cocky and impetuous gravy
the fallibility of poets in plain sight
the wearing of the green
nature surrounded by cutlery
old school teachers
Dollar Store pads
the name LENNIE comes to mind
development beyond the ape
lights out—child-like adults
the frontier is tamed
nobody flags the trains
the past was difficult but it is gone
unrestrained adults run wild
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a meager existence
fashioning poetry from WORD SUBSTITUTIONS
interchangeable love interests from the coffee counter
the girl with the super round eyes
the younger one fresh from prison
someone mentioned her somewhat masculine exterior
I kept thinking “she’s got a dong”
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when one searches for companionship
at the coffee counter
it is easy to find oneself dominated
aggressive feminine word substitutions
she says one thing three ways
careless chatter about squirrels
wild beauty in movie star sex
two beds or it becomes a prizefight
****scissors under the pillow
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line after line leading to no conclusion – worse when read like John Wayne – galloping across the page – a poor plot
of soft bondage – the safe word forgotten the beatings continue – the fad for Swedish meatballs – flarf upon flarf
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Elvis rumours persist
continual life –
a rhinestone star shines bright – rumours persist of sighting:
atop o’ mountains
NASCAR supporter, trucker cap, a belt buckle the size of a Thanksgiving table
– elvis as American myth
– impersonator who is just stealing the lines of others – Charlie the flarf man, a thief in the night
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LINE AFTER LINE LEADING TO NO CONCLUSION
like saying minute after minute
living minute after minute
the conclusion being the ground
will someone be kneeling ?
will someone be looking up ?
the callous disposal of flesh
liquids drained beforehand
they say that they glue your holes shut
but they do so only for pay
too lazy to warm their hands
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word after word with NO conclusion
trying to dig a grave with a toothpick
they keep digging Johnny Cash up
and burying him in a different spot
transplanting Johnny Cash
it is the American way
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one can only ponder
if poets get paid to trash-talk NASCAR ?
fence-jumpers know nothing of 200mph
breast swollen goats and thirsty flies
traditional intercourse with a slight infection
pot-menders calling out names
money, tobacco, and racing machines
dirt-smudged children out of focus
fading images of something in life
beyond mere existence
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line after line with no conclusion
scratched skin before the wedding
considerable makeup to hide the eyes
migratory birds
once romanced prove dangerous
mixed drinks at the bar, thighs and alcohol
a clever salesman’s trick, communication before sex
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Elvis never set foot in England –
fear of royalty and crowns
– jewellery jealousy
– to fat to fuck he retreated to mementoes of young Priscilla-
was it legal at that time?
– buried the flarf
– burnt the jumpsuits
I’m glad you mentioned the cutlery
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I see a darkness was the title of the last song I heard – I never saw God once and I wasn’t disappointed –
all the lips synced
all the lips synced
all the lips synced
all the lips synced
– repeated until you’re in trance a
when Roy wore those glasses you never knew which way he was looking
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the old poets of post used to send each other’s line at a time –
took months to write a stanza
– the kids with no pocket money
scavenge at the edge of town
– empty chapters of a dying town
chocking chimneys
animals on the ark
they re-routed all the traffic through dark town
a midnight jazz soundtrack, tremendous sadness
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expensive socks hidden under clown trousers – colours and patterns never seen before on this island – 12 pairs and the one legged man – the clerk wrapped them in yesterday’s newspaper where the crossword went unfinished
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folklore
foreskin removed with blunt knifes
starting at blue away from sin
– the organised man;
the scientist they hired didn’t like jazz
couldn’t handle the randomness of it – there was no linear narrative – nothing from which he could tabulated and draw conclusions
– heavy lungs & puffed out cheeks
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I wear crime scene tape to hold up my trousers and in this weather
my lips swelled blood turn blue – or shades of
– a pale skin red when raw
ointment for the rash
balms for the bruised
– I peeked behind the curtains and it was dark and tasted metallic
tasted of iron like I was sucking on a nail –
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ALL THOSE POETS STANDING OUTSIDE ON THE STREET
are they really agents of the Lord ?
or are they the weak moments of life on earth ?
what is a weak moment in a great display of nature ?
all this drama and dialogue
at any snap— harsh words and violence
smaller folks being knocked unconscious
who would dare bear witness on the thugs ?
thieves with copyrights and sharp knives
thieves with Freudian theories
naked family members actively engaged
old guilt and old debts visible in photographs
Swedish yellow straw-like hair and bright blue buttocks
gossip about the first standing ape and her muscular organ
a constant collection of spectators
painful significance—the poor fellow
TRIUMPH—or surrender to the shadows
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a thousand years of experiments with words
loose letters and loose threads
a conflict to resolve
it is WRONG to wear expensive socks
with curtain pants or clown trousers
****lost in the waste of such a choice
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—————————–the savage in himself
blue buttock longing—instinctively intercourse-driven
tormented by the lower tendencies
heart-rending erections
throwback testicles
limited mathematical exactitude
****these hands did afford release
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have we reached a point where we evolve no more? just beyond simian – from child
to boy then men then death?
– a name carved into a desk
old school teacher where the land masses were joined –
difficult to contain the past as it spills out from all your pores –
we still need to develop
the frontier is receding
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the year of death took more words away from us – we are unable to substitute
we need more words
we need new meanings
– some things are perfect and will never change (knifes, forks) – the coffee girl daydreams of English tea –
has she got a dong?
how does she walk?
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LIVING SO DAMN CLOSE TO THE SUN
AND YET WHEN DOGS BARK
THEY SOUND LIKE DOGS
AND NOT SOME METALLIC SIREN
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just endless poetic chatter
adolescent poetry
FLARF written by adults
tongue-tied dialogue
twice buried and dug up
DAILY DISENCHANTMENT
the children removed from the floor
winter has seeped in—-damp and cold
people down the street have holes in their lungs
their oxygen has turned to jelly—globs of mucus
long thin tubes suck the phlegm from their throats
one must not listen as they pass by their abode
it becomes difficult not to display
an expression of superiority
——–woe unto others———
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THE DARK CORNERS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
and the poet with the flashlight
moral church people
standing in anguish
emotional fragility
deficiencies
————what was encouraging the experimental
jazz men ?
out of unhappiness and unpacified snot
imperfect vigor
the nightly fire
crystalized meth
heart-rending they say
down by the church
anguish continually flows
in the back room
perversity and purity jostle
men with guitars and odd horns
desire in different shades
big old lips just begging
to make confession
scholarly jazz
ain’t no thing
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suffering from an excess
verbal violence
when the time comes
adequate language
careful to step on immaturity
careful to step on childish behavior
always a conflict with the schizoid poet
full-length poems with 54 verbs
dictator daddy with distressing rules
journeys through the verbs
is he down to earth ?
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AMAZON is offering specials on inherent fears and obsessions
they left out the word, ancient
distressing desires of the common man
black and blue from suppressed instincts
jilted dreams become poetry
barbaric dances around a campfire
the music of Miles Dewey Davis
mysticism of the trumpeter
complex variations on this theme
casting off civilization
before civilization started
—the fat bug before the wings—
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old hold stitched with Cotten thread that over time disintegrate allowing the liquid to leak out –
slippery surfaces under foot
– bloodless Californian full of holes
unable to stay warm in the western sun
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if you liked Johnny Cash in the 70s you were a REDNECK
– if you like him know
you’re a hipster – the corpse exhumed and painted new
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the agents of the Lord were just that – AGENTS – secret agents recruited during a weak moment –
proactively establishing drama triangles –
telling people what to do
– recording outcomes
– a withering muscle (weak vein)
– there is nothing of significance
– the bright colours of an African flag*
*Fela Kuti wrote the anthem
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festive socks for everyone
helicopters air drop into the ghetto –
she told me she once sound six vowels for a $1,000
– double jeopardy at the K-Mart
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pumped up and rigid
air in and air out
instincts gave way to to spreadsheets and plans formulated by consultants
– winter approaches and restocked retract inside – I AM
NO MORE A MAN – my wallet is empty
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the right distance
mathematically just that far away
– the coffee girl would break into the urinal and rather the men
•ROUNDHEAD or
•CAVALIER
– nocturnal barks kept the neighbourhood up – the old lady at 46 prayed for a meteor to land
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foggy camaraderie at the Bedrock Motel
one night stands
and others questioning the continuance
school children selling candy bars
“God the Father” on the wrapper
sweet spiritual motivation
a little hell before heaven
at the misfortune of women and girls
sex starved men wanting to celebrate victory
peeing on the walls with heroic arcs
flying spray on the lampshades
and bedspreads
although awkwardly articulated
the poetic strength of the urine
was overpowering
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endless poetic chatter picked up on satellites and beamed to space stations
lulling zero gravity astronauts to sleep miles away from wifi & McDonalds –
back on earth
grounded by gravity people walk around with rattling lung
– damp to the touch
– a smell of wet dog
– children reciting the alphabet and saluting a flag
-”tis the season to be jolly
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AWKWARDLY ARTICULATED POETRY
REFLECTED IN A STREAM OF URINE
words in a poem
they walk away—they stay
words from a mind-set
the source of stress doesn’t matter
those small thoughts are entitled to thrive
———–end-of-the-day fatigue
———–end-of-life fatigue
other people blossom
other people do it till their genitals become chafed
if you look—it is on the list
“retrieve relationship”
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the guys at the pool hall
were talking about
how people are afraid
to bite back
even when
there is no other choice
one of the regulars
(replaces brake pads at Sears)
commented
on how in our semi-destroyed reality
our cesspools of domesticity
we still hope to find that loophole
****I was thinking how great it would be
if he looked like Johnny Weissmuller
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I am sorry to say
that someone
has left a pile of scars
at your backdoor
I know that you
feel frightened
wedged
cornered
the detectives on the street
can smell your adrenaline
they can hear your conversations
they know you have expensive socks
****pray your words don’t flesh out
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they walked along a corridor of light until the torch ran out
– in the dark the people wrung their hands
no one was going to beg forgiveness
no one could admit that they had done wrong – night time thoughts that encroach into the daily hours – walking sin in expensive shoes
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when push comes to shove she couldn’t get the words out
– stuck in throat or the little hands in her mind couldn’t grasp them – shamefaced in front of daddy –
– learning line after line for the recital –
childish things banished in an adult world
looking tiny in a full length mirror
getting smaller
receding
receding
receding
until she can recede no more
–
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AMERICANS WEAR BLINDFOLDS ON TOP OF THEIR BLINDFOLDS
late at night in a private automobile
someone farts
the smell of humus
a naked butt close to your nose
bits of paper and twigs in the canyon
WHAT WOULD IT TAKE TO CORRECT THE SITUATION ?
physical laws
rational laws
a loaded gun ?
intentional solitude after the rape
bad thoughts about seed stock
stepping on his scrotum
jumping up and down on his scrotum
the cycles of his seed would cease
the pain would be harsh
—————–at the hospital
they vacuumed out a pint of sperm
to become an incubator
oh my heavens
pills with skulls
that not only kill but also murder
2 would do the deed
blackened fingers held out 4
“he was a rat bastard—take 4”
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I AM NOT A CARTOON CHARACTER
(bootleg Flarf poetry)
claws for fingernails
fleshed out from skeletal days
creatural erections
making theater
around the roaring flames
no reason to halt the dance
great pleasure in planting the seeds
indigo-colored buttocks
God may be watching from the brown eye
God the camera in operating mode
the God of inexplicable loneliness
God with no apprentices
God the watcher—the stalker
constantly nourishing on sights and sounds
laughing at “that which we will become”
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cavemen didn’t have neurosis
they didn’t suffer from seasonal adjustment disorder – they didn’t have amazon
they couldn’t buy cheap jumpers and secondhand books – they killed and ate dead animals –
caveman daddy in fur
at the beginning of civilisation
a short shadow cast at a time when they say birds flying and thought WOW
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95% OF ALL INFORMATION
MANKIND KNOWS ABOUT CAVEMEN
CAME FROM AN ANCIENT TOOTHPICK
FROZEN IN ICE
FROM THAT SINGLE PIECE OF WOOD
THEY RECONSTRUCTED FACIAL FEATURES
ESTIMATED WEIGHT AND HEIGHT
AND WHAT DEGREE HE HOUNDED
AND HARASSED FEMALES
HIS PEER GROUPS
HIS CULTURAL FORCES
THEY EVEN CRITIQUED
HIS MENTAL HEALTH LUGGAGE
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if cavemen lacked neurosis
did they feel a false sense of freedom ?
what about sinister knowledge ?
what were they using to corral their curiosity ?
a million questions
carrion eaters
some ugly
some not
so many things have changed
predators too big to hide
too lazy to run away
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a break in continuity
the prop designer forget to move the vase – dead flowers soaked urine
ammonia headaches overpowering stench – sex starved men begin to view things differently
thin line
yes and no
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it is strange and
hard to articulate
even though the words are written in my mother tongue – stress fractures of
spiderweb spread across her porcelain skin –
– I remember where I was when the Beatle died
I remember where I was when I first heard the word Chappaquiddick
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I had black hands that cast no shadow
beating my chest like an ape gone mad – Johnny Weissmuller goading me – superman at the top of the tree
in a world of to much choice it’s funny that you have no choice
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the neighbourhood dogs dribbles and swallows the back door scars – a bad influence amongst the flock –
when I went to Paris I had a hole in my sock and got lost in backstreets as I vomited in dark corners – I know now that the detectives were watching
– my DNA on a baguette
– all things fleshed out become see through
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YOU REFERRED TO THEM AS NEIGHORHOOD DOGS
but weren’t they really just shadowy visitors ?
possibly from the land of skeletons and cadavers ?
———a hole in your sock
it could never happen in Florida
people may be careless about where they step
but strong attention is paid to the socks
****I have never known anyone to admit openly
to having a hole in their sock
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YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR SOCK
instead of going to 5000 fantastic locations
somehow you got dragged to Paris
I can only assume that you were tied up
are you intact and unbroken ?
“count your fingers and toes”
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rat bastard
rat fink – fingerprints all over the scene – the outline of her history chalk marked on the floor
dark town – outside the laundromat they fought over the missing sock – a semi-circle of maids heavy with the smell of bleach
– skull pills trading for the cost of 3 spider pill – new thrills and old bellyaches
phantom pregnancy phenomenon
incubator females laughing at the hanging scrotum
hanging like a beehive
all pain is short lived
–
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Those skeletal day before we put meat on the bone
just a stiff spine to keep us up
invisible thread pulling us up
invisible god always taking notes
invisible god watching
Rear Window god
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eerie lights around the Rear Window God
no one laughs about the twists and turns
that lead to the Exit Lord
many dream of a simple toehold
if one could only hold on to elevated thoughts
not battle constant oppressive circumstances
poetry painted with the eyes
perceiving the cruelty whirling
in order to get along
we make nice
A THOUSAND MILLION TIMES WE MAKE NICE
——————————————————————
employment is bootjack
as an employee one becomes everyone’s bootjack
any deeper feelings have died or been seriously wounded
people in the workplace may have arms and legs
but look at the gnarl that has replaced their heads
gauze-wrapped atrophy—unremarkable—mundane
reluctant for fear of being disenfranchised
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if one wants to talk about expensive socks
France and Italy put together
couldn’t purchase a new pair
for Superman
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the toothpick in the Smithsonian, viewed daily by tourists with cameras that cost more then a home did in 1932 – the year they feared the seed of Nazism – flecks of caveman DNA: a hair
modelled and reconstructed on computers – caveman faeces revealed heavy meat diets
low forehead
beard growth and confusion over erections due to lack of visual stimuli – jacking off looking at a rock or a carcass
peer groups dynamics at sea level
– mental luggage left in a locker
– shoplifting at the Smithsonian and replicas of THAT toothpick selling for a dollar a piece –
WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE
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MASTURBATING TO THE SIGHT OF A ROCK
probably not just any rock
the poet stood up and introduced himself
“Hi, I’m a lonely and set-apart individual”
“Hi, I’m enslaved by the products of technology”
“Hi, I jack-off looking at mature full-figure rocks”
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when one lives in a cave
plagued with toothaches
was covetousness a hot item ?
name the males who didn’t masturbate
one hand on the dong
one hand touching the rock
holy men–martyrs–saints
not a single angel
journey that far
why waste a quick nut ?
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SHE wasn’t lying
when SHE said that there were snakes
in her underpants
made the waitresses nervous
and the librarians frisky
many people were unable to share
her enthusiasm
pool hall denizens
young hitchhikers
men with goiters on their necks
—————————————-
made folks nervous
the doctor suggested “adjustments”
others said that there were no snakes
that the constant hiss
was some sort of echo from the distance
the faint agony of two lovers separated
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homo Americanus
Old Testament Tarts
not very difficult to articulate tightness
breathing nervously
will it slip in ?
full-length
with the fear
of something taking root
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Victorian ladies schooled in the art of sock darning – sharp needles and tiny pricks
in delicate skin
a lost art these days
socks are just disposable –
on the moors string men walk sockless to prove masculine points
have you ever seen a naked corpse with just socks on???
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all the neighbourhood dogs howl
howl all night when one starts they all start howling
a chain reaction
of dominoes falling
the dogs howling
at shadowy visitors at with no regard for facts or fiction
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reassembled bit by bit with string and glue all
conjoined together
the handlers had problems understanding the French instructions –
– a real memory of Paris where there really was a hole in my sock
– a hole which I couldn’t help but stare at
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a hole in the sock
possibly distorted/manipulated to yield
allegorical meaning
it would be very awkward
if someone noticed the hole
the entire sum of one’s being
a stupid hole in the sock
spiritual insights
or source of the leak
hardship or laziness
****did Jesus have a mental image of socks ?
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could it be possible
that Johnny Weissmuller
and Jesus
wear expensive socks
in heaven ?
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not only the invisible God
but all the ghosts of dead relatives
outside the limits of credibility
the forces that impel you towards transformation
that guide your hands to remove the sin from your life
invisible scissors that snip away at all the pleasures
——————————————————————
you stand there at the window
watching the detectives outside
the neighbors have no sympathy
for your ordeals
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the hands that knead the dough
can knead the dong
as fruit trees blossom
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poetry is a clear map
to the knowings and the practices
of the walking world
reality through physical sensing
many gifts with few “THANKS”
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only one devil will act in your behalf
in the underworld
(English dialect or not)
denouncing jazz is not advised
or even jazzy American
(Yankee slang or not)
in some neighborhoods
the demons sing nonsense/scat
Uptown seems to have a more serviceable lyric
grandiose piffle in 50 shades
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it was a fine rock
a DAMN fine rock – it’s curves
the shadows it cast
– it was a special rock
one he took great pride in and carried around, showing her off at social functions
(LOOK BUT DONT TOUCH) –
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in the east of the city they began to evacuate the waitresses-
the librarians would be next –
you could tell by the looks on their face they were bored
– the snakes in their underpants was just a ruse
some kind of smoke and mirrors –
the lone hitchhiker thumb in the air – the echo of a passing car
the agony of separation choked him like exhaust fumes
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always smaller then expected
always smaller
small pants of breath
small pants of breath
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NAME ONE TIME THAT IT IS FORBIDDEN
TO DISTURB A POET
detectives wanting to learn what led to what
SHARECROPPING (?)
have to look that one up in the dictionary
SHE asked, ” you want the fancy wig on or off ?”
SHE’S dangling the fancy wig in front of me
being from the backwoods
I was excited by the yellow Hollywood hair
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SUFFICE TO SAY THAT THING WAS SMALL
an incompletely initiated entrance
just enough for the brook to flow
many fingerprints on the walls
suckling once but not enough
****an outside practitioner at best
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the rock had cycles
and sometimes his pocket turned red
other times he would feel a tugging
and he knew she had to go potty
he had a special harness made
but she said it was for whores
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SHE didn’t say that she was from the school of hard knocks
just that it was in the neighborhood
making a fast buck in the theater balconies
the boys were new to the mouth
Manhattan squirrels had the nuts
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poets afraid to bite back
even when there is no other choice
————————————————
from the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee
Bible readers with a dislike for Flarf
grammatical inventions
were the work of the devil
———————————————–
underwear from the Ziegfeld Follies
countless stains of gratitude
people question the statute of limitations
here and now not way back then
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being from the backwoods
I was excited by the yellow Hollywood hair
sound synthesizers broadcasting
gurgles from a baby
infant poets start before
they are ready
dialogue about thoughts and feelings
when all the words are not known
and yet there are no stop signs
adults with worthless instructions
unable to see the background
whirling by at a fast pace
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poets unable to react to injustice
reluctant to retaliate
flee or fight or be sodomized
pucker up Frida Kahlo
Daddy is driving home tonight
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Johnny and Jesus swapped socks
– sometimes they would put a left one on the right foot – no one ever noticed –
Jesus told him he felt naked without socks
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the detectives turned tarot cards
they thought they could foretell the future
they couldn’t
and they couldn’t reverse the past
– the sin stuck fast
– there would be no caterpillar into a butterfly transformation he was stuck there
REAR VIEW WINDOW MAN constantly staring
constantly staring
constantly staring
constantly staring at the ordeals of others
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who invented the sock?
– a perfect design of function and form
she told me that for all the best moments of her life she was wearing socks – she had hundreds of pictures to prove it
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the clear map
follow the yellow brick road
the sat nav was misleading
you drive in circles for days
your brother was going through the motions in another city swarmed by birds and storm clouds
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(masturbation)
you practice (efficiently and effectively)
until you are sure of yourself
you find the rhythm and it becomes automatic
——————————————————-
late at night in your bed
listening
sensing the world around you
thousands of people are breathing
the possibilities of there being outdoor predators
is frightening
poisoned baits are hidden under bushes
however
the adults are too smart
only young pups swallow the God-made agony
it is the Garden of Eden all over again
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jazz was the Devils sound
devoid of an accent it seeped through neighbourhoods
uptown liked the standards
downtown grooved on space jazz – a statue of Sun Ra unveiled bathed in glorious piss yellow sunlight –
demon scat And speaking in tongues
nebulous voodoo clouds
finger clicks daddio
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the fancy wig was made from human hair shipped from Siberia – it itched the scalp something crazy – sharecropper sweats under toupee fur –
it came in two colours
Hollywood Blond
or
Blond Hollywood –
a disguise the detectives could see through –
there was no perfect time to disrupt a poet
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STAYING (NOT LIVING) AT A MOTEL
where they have no word for blond
all women over 14 are kaput—done for
it is not hard to pry off the doll face
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people try to normalize the assault of jazz
assault after assault
tortured souls
in handmade clothes
their offspring lost
in the chalkboard of black reality
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——————FORMIDABLE PUNISHMENTS
for pointing out wrongs
when the policemen came
with giant loaded guns and angry dogs
jazz musicians were not able to intervene
Dark Town became silent—not a single street light
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itchy sensations under the tight wig
being the only female senior citizen
in Dark Town proper
SHE sang the blues
if you got up close
you could smell
the caustic cleanser
from her evening scrub
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finding it difficult to date girls
without derogatory or disrespectful labels
pinned to the front of their blouses
always saying yes to ugly ducklings
buying milk shakes for the plump ones
cigarettes for the coughers and hackers
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the harness tightened and held them together –
she spent weeks on a motorbike
racing away from something
racing to something
she smelt of oil, fumes
the leather trousers chaffed
in the morning she couldn’t wait to start again
’tis a pity she’s a whore
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in the neighbourhood there were all sorts: charlatans, preachers, shop keepers,
priests and laymen, street corner hustlers policeman and athletes
dethroned rulers and part time clowns – in this neighbourhood the theatre has a matinee each day at 12 high kicking girls for the injured jocks
squirrel nuts buried and totally forgotten
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voices in the dark singing
“pity the man who hobbles to bed”
will the hunger continue after death ?
thoughts of cedar-thighed legs
playing there under the table
seeing the hairy Babylonians
****unaware of the erotic value
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Ziegfeld underwear vacuum packed and sold online – a certificate of authentication, the stains all explained
– the ebb and flow of the Devils works – the statue of limitations expired last week
post truth
post truth
I can not lie
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blind eyes turned to injustice – hard to define what it’s all about really –
on a superficial level the poet knew it didn’t matter
– NOT ONE JOT – but deep down past the hole of no return the poet knew it was all wrong
tried to express it in less then 3 verses
Frida Khalo will only become more famous
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Frida Kahlo was daily repairing her husband barrier
constantly building new walls for limited protection
SHE had no desire to be his source
of carefree enjoyment
the serpent in his pants
was no pet
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Frida Kahlo is constantly going through her neighbor’s garbage
looking for jism and gristle and any trace of evidence
countless underprivileged sanitary products
some having been incubated next to moist goo
down-there frosting —“you got foam”
****the smell of the discharge
poetry coated with invidious thoughts that have escaped
powerless against torment, Frida Kahlo prayed to be blank
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READERS ARE AWARE OF FRIDA KAHLO’S HUSBAND
there are those who say that he escaped from an asylum
an upscale Palm Beach rehabilitation center
nothing too nice for the man who ate sin
———THE MAN WHO ATE SIN———
the outer world was just a buffet
starved and maniacal
poor Frida Kahlo
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WHAT IS THE KILLING THING ?
that which slays us and puts us in the dark bed
your fluffy pillow and stained blanket
your heavy bones and fluids proper
the words grow so silent
one can only guess
poetry with an eye patch
and a pirate song
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OVERSIMPLIFIED OPTIMISTIC POETRY WANTED
detached poetry, extended, abstract poetry
flarf and anything related—must stand outside
in a line of thugs —“the fun was long gone”
a thousand misguided undertakings
mud and crud from each one
detached knee bones and hip joints
like elephant tusks piled up high
readers exercise no control
their “high-falutin” ideas never hatch
real stinkers they are
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WHEN ASKED
ABOUT THE AGGRESSIVE PROPELLANTS
OF POETRY
I had nothing to say
mental whirlwinds
shivers
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THEY SAY THAT IT IS THE TEXTURE AND MOTION
OF THE WORDS AND THEIR BEAT
THE COLLECTIVE PHRASING
every movement becomes improvisational
and yet in back rooms “keep the time—charge in tempo”
————————————————————————-
poetry with dominant ground beats
Anglo-Saxon grunting
morning rasping
evening wailing
Daddy Shouter honking
“Poetry has got the hot buds”
****inflamed anal glands
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the cleanser the bleached skin rubbed red raw a life time of tablets and pills
diet of red meat
the feeling of being a vampire
the constant taste of iron
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it takes all sorts to tick all boxes
blind dating in the dark unable to see the name badges
just going on the sound of their voice
localised accents turn you off
– look below the surface means removing the skin –
ed gein lampshades selling for a song
– coughing fat girl with milkshake lips
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Frida Kahlo celebrated Christmas by decorating her eyebrows with tinsel and lights –
an artistic statement
her husband wrapped presents while listening to Louie Armstrong – the serpent asleep
the world outside quiet
the paint on the bristles dried
– a bin bag full of wrapping paper
– her wifi went down the firewall extinguished
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he stepped into the room
could he just stop the endless chatter
the three direction questions
the small talk about small talk
words like a dog bite
wasps flying dangerously close
juice from a watermelon
making them crazy
some sort of sugar arousal
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it was as if SHE lived in a museum
constant sound with a carpet like corn flakes
she kept saying, “be prepared”
the godhead wasn’t interested in sin
“why did you limit your pleasures ?”
one should sigh
the thorn needle from childhood
kinship pain from the start
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the boss detective claimed
that my face had been reassembled
memory is always false
so now I do not look like myself
a moment’s impression
and
now thousands of photographs
have no value
all those empty frames
displacement in two directions
merchandising SIN
and praying to Jesus
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daily garbage rummaging
old pieces of a life
pieces of puzzle that fit each other
her husband was bored by it
at night he just grabbed at it
slapped it
screamed at the meat
– fit to burst a salty discharge
she wanted it all to be blank so she could colour it all in – the neighbours put locks on their bins –
Frida Kahlo in a metal car
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a man in a trap searching for the old him – defined by his actions the poet is defined by his words –
(MARRIAGE IS AN INSTITUTION)
people will try and break you out of prisons, abortion clinics, mental institutions, rehab houses but no one tried to break him out of his marriage
– he couldn’t tunnel out
25 years in the big house
– mash potato slop
fearful showers
– a poor card for poor Frida
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the man on the radio
warned everyone not to carry
poison pen letters
next to their hearts
and I don’t even know
what a poison pen letter is
hideous poetry: YES, I know it
I try to stay clear and clean
(+) play a Nazi in a Hollywood movie
(+) find it too difficult to journey to Sweden
to accept the Nobel Prize
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when asked what a poet should look like
———-Lon Chaney
from “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”
poetry should exhibit a succession of misalliances
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CHILDHOOD: NARCOTICS AND EVERYTHING WRITTEN BY JULES VERNE
plenty of time for the future
living with a woman
mash potato soup
open door showers
a wearisome career
pirate shirts
clown trousers
fashionable shoes
round jacket corners
NO square jacket corners
ticket stubs and strangled tokens
A LIFE WITH NO REFERENCES TO SEX
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I hand-copied everything written by Jules Verne
I was never the young stud Yul Brynner
but my best friend was
——–were books just toys from the bookshelf ?
Yul Brynner fully dressed
Yul Brynner walking around nude
the magazines refer to it as solitary
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I HAND-COPIED EVERYTHING
WRITTEN BY JULES VERNE
it was never easy to share sleep
500 million thoughts
dope-fiends
with the smell
of cigarette tobacco
in the shirt pockets
in the dark
the overpowering
feel of plaid
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A SUCCESSION OF MISALLIANCES
countless sex organs buried in the South of France
empty hands with stiff fingers
closed hands unable to open
hands cut off at the wrist
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I remember becoming really upset
when someone said that the words of Jules Verne
were just costume jewelry
I can see distant clouds on the horizon
the sound of doors banging
one less mouth to feed
****a rootless weed cannot survive
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the killing thing
a stained pillow
the devil makes work for idle hands
pirates with no vitamin c,d or e
pirates on the ark
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they looked like cattle huddled together
I didn’t say anything
just stared at them
let my eyes drop
moved on down the island
one of the girls was a blond Jersey
very natural with no make-up
a ring-my-doorbell anytime
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someone was reading Robert Frost on the elevator
there was barely room to stand
with all the heartbreaking loneliness
trees in autumn, trees in the winter
naked with their twigs exposed
more sensitive folk were weeping
I was thinking that it wasn’t so bad
night was hours away
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THE DRUMS AND THE ALL NIGHT FIRE
possessing only a distant
and theoretical knowledge
of blue butt language
a private understanding
not one imposed
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someone in the neighborhood
reported a taint of vulgarity
foreign detectives in short pants
march out front in plain sight
peculiar hair pieces
a drink and a tinge of baldness
they needed a ready-made substitute
Paul was dead
3 shovels and a hole in the ground
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NO ONE EVER TALKS ABOUT DISEASED THOUGHTS
crime may be sleeping—a source of error
petting zoos for nervous excitement
Trent Reznor slap happy
got the belt on his birthday
parental abuse…..to be long tolerated
sorrow constantly knocking on the door
the telephone rings in black and white
the will to exist is drunk and needs a lift
Trent Reznor got the belt on his birthday
I saw him swallow a gallon of tears
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little orphan Annie and her state funded words – dormitory chitter chatter**
bunk bed conversations
swatting away suitors like summer flies around jam jar traps
–
**the silhouette of her hands working overtime dormitory nothing is private
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she was a museum piece with a little plaque that had her written history for all to read
– “be prepared” the motto for the foot warriors of god – the boy scouts of America and their
secret handshakes
– she never saw the sea until she 28 and she’d live in Florida all her life!
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I once looked like an amalgamation of all those who had won the best actor Oscar between the years 1965 – 1974
– no one ever sees the same thing the same,
a squint, a muted reflection the time of day
a hot heat haze
nothing ever looks the same
in side the picture frame
I was displaced
set aside and erased from wedding pictures
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poison pens and polluted umbrella tips –
dead soviet spies on foreign streets –
the man on the radio spoke in code – secret messages passed to the initiated –
(walk softly
carry a big stick)
– the poetry was sent in morse code – the poetry was converted to binary
– (+) – the actor wanted to play a Nazi – he liked the uniform
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get upset when people don’t credit death
as a one way ticket to hell
talk like death isn’t a first-class ticket
to the burning lake
living hell—burning lake—eternity
what does one say
when asked by an older matron (Emily Dickinson)
“are you a poet ?”
not an air of meaning concealed
a poet just makes novel combinations of words
a poet needs no explanation for emotional delusion
there are no final decisions
no final formula
only the ingredients
letters stuck together
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(speaking of Nazi)
one can only think of Joseph Goebbels
and his daughters, Helga and Hilde
willful dislocations
they are on the eternal swim team
The Burning Lakers in 2020
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today an agent of the government
knocked on the door
he informed me
that I had no claim to originality
that my written words
were untrained and insensitive
—————————————-
he handed me a small card:
“FLARF IS THE MANIPULATION
OF CERTAIN WORDS
IN CERTAIN ARBITRARY WAYS
IT MAY APPEAR MORE OR LESS
TO BE A DIVINE EMANATION
…….BUT IT NEVER IS”
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——DISTINCTIONS———-
THEY CLAIM THAT THERE IS MUSIC
BEHIND THE WRITTEN WORD
some poets try to sneak old-people paraphernalia
into the literature soup
next door they purchased
a machine
that never tires
of a mechanical beat
mentally I turn it off
every five minutes
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the neighbors are outside
at 2 o’clock in the dark
washing the salt water
off their boat motor
the strange sound
makes me think
of that gurgle
Bowie made
as he died
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God told me that the Ark was not SUFFICIENT
entanglements
never offering explanations
He included some nasty things
very satisfactory
Satan put a check in the box
(x) very satisfactory
burials are boring without sin
explicit photographs of Noah and his seed
NOAH (startling and talented)
—————————————————-
GOD OPENED HIS MOUTH
AND SWALLOWED
THE FLOOD
it wasn’t really his mouth
God doesn’t have a mouth
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WALMART NOW SELLS STEREOTYPED EXPRESSIONS
they come in small playing card size packs in tin foil
I saw them next to the Goebbels 2017 calendars
Joseph and his family were very charming
rumor has it that if you purchase one
you get put on a watch list
would be safer to just steal one
—————————————-
the maiden and her daughters
swimming in the Stygian river
Nazi guards on the shoreline
polished boots that reflected the sky
no one was permitted to acknowledge them
it was as if they didn’t exist —part of the scenery
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tonight on the local news
a quasi-pit bull dog covered in blood
was yanked into the back of a white truck
the camera focused in on the dog’s eyes
the angst of 2017 was recorded perfectly
20 police officers had to drop a 1000 atomic bombs on the dog
before it would release the owner’s mangled arm
SHE had been trying to put a sweater on the dog
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wearing g shorts until leaves fell off the tree
scout badges on your arm
loose laces tomorrow sometimes never came milk before dead newflashes explosions toy guns
clown trousers
the future not known
but it was there
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Lyrics from a song about Yul Brynner
“And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe.”
[SM]
I’m not what you think I am
I’m the king of Siam
I’ve got a bald head
My name is Yul Brynner
And I am a famous movie star
Perhaps you saw me in Westworld
I acted like a robotic cowboy
It was my best role
I can not deny I
Felt right home deep inside
That electronic carcass
You’re such monumental slime
Let the punishment fit the crime
Tie it to a chair
The house music will blare
And turn your ears into
A medicinal jelly
Stay inside on Christmas Day
And make believe that you are my candy cane
You said, “I’m not that type,
No I’m not sweet, and I’m not overripe
Bob Dylan sang in
“Its alright mama im only bleeding”,
Everything from toy guns that spark to flesh colored Christs that glow in the dark
Its easy to see we got in too far and not much is really sacred.
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cowboy Yul was the butt of jokes at the pool hall*
*you can guess why!
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cigarette fingers crawling through the hair of fevered children – I hand copied all the words from the Hardy boys – the book pages were damp
they became hard when dried
pages that could cut
small cuts on fingers of the avid reader –
the shirt pocket and the leaking pen
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misalliances and teenage fumblings behind the bleachers* a finger in a pie
the smell of dying animals
unable to use fingers to grip
*no bleachers here
just wet sodden wood
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“WET SODDEN WOOD”
was on the top 10 chart for three weeks
sensitive schoolboys at that magic age
desires so old that no one knows how old
many dictionaries refuse to define them
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real men laugh at the dictionary meaning of words
snorting meth and popping spider pills
wild flights of speculation
muscle cramps — leaking pee
and other
isolated physical phenomenon
many great men and women
have never spoken a word of English
however they are long dead
many great men and women
have came from France and Italy
however they are long dead
———————————-
POETRY waves the flag of poisoning
primitive stages of expression
love in any of several levels of hardship
penetration in movies and prison
often as a source of income
———————————
SODOMY NEVER SPOKEN
it is not difficult to smell sodomy
ego circles and sodomy
historical brown jelly and oily hair
lube on the bed sheets and towels
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the fully clothed trees of summer their limbs obscured
people sketch them with pencils
and try and attach some beauty to the bark
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The Jungle drums echoing from downtown
darktown
rhythmic boogie
not imposed but given freely
– awakening, late winter day to jazz and sun
naked trees skinny like an old man sunspots on stretch skin as
if he was a drum
he wound sound hollow
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neighbourhood communicated in a series of secret signs
– small ticks, a subtle hand movement
-YOU WERE NOT INCLUDED IN THEIR GAMES –
– the lists grew
the reports of behaviour expanded
you were referenced on pages 254 – 267
a blurred photo, in short shorts outside
a hole in the ground somewhere over there, in the distance
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returning from the shadows
waiting for the arrival of the ark – a floating petting zoo of flatulence and anus sniffing – animals,
each and everyone of them
with a Trent Reznor soundtrack of computers screaming and axe murdered children
– in the town the removed the road signs to confuse the tourists
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the drum beats cause thoughts to lose their actuality
of what merit is a man with vaporous thoughts ?
walking around like a submarine beneath the surface
surrounded by shadows of recollections
unaccountable moments
vague memories
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THE TRASHCANS
WERE FULL OF MATHEMATICAL REASONINGS
ADDRESSES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS
PRIVATE SKETCHES OF ANATOMY
MOVIE STAR PHONE NUMBERS
TINY MACHINES FROM OUTER SPACE
some of them could talk
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TINY MACHINES FROM OUTER SPACE
just the right words spoken
the loss of consciousness
the descent of the mind
a place called “sleep”
—————————
the mind set adrift
toward the beyond
—————————
just this morning my young son
was striking a glass tombstone with a hammer
I am positive that there was an undercurrent of meaning
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the government agent visited me the other day – just another name to tick off his list – he advised me people were taking notes
dissecting the meanings of each word
they handed me a a wad of paper 2ft thick – they questioned me about associations with others
“WHATS IN IT FOR YOU JOHNNY BOY? WHATS IN IT FOR YOU JOHNNY BOY?” –
(from a distance I read their lips)
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the strange gargle was recorded
and remixed and used as
sirens on police cars
and it’s sound waves
we’re beamed
into space
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the death of one of England’s best loved sons – a corpse set out to sea and set alight
– Valhalla headlights –
God doesn’t need a mouth
he communicates through signs
no need for words –
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the sleep box was full of codes and ciphers
full of anagrams and acrostics
crazy stuff from the Kabbala
even swindles from World War 2
poetry sprinkled with references to sodomy
a chart with lengths and wide-open eye photos
in a world of concealment and deception
one must grasp that devil—squeeze the tip open
and look inside (it is a work of God)
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A NATION OF CORRUPTED INHABITANTS
the super tiny people mock God
(ants that are no longer group-minded)
beauty and harmony are everywhere
supernatural beauty is plentiful
poetic intuition uses scientific reason
as toilet wipes
poets and artists oppressed
small fish in metal tins
all entrances into adult life blocked
eternal dreamy childhood
God super bright in the sky
preaching wakefulness in reverie
live and play in imagination
no boredom in hungers and passions
the power to perceive has no limits
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the detectives curious about your earthly self
questioning every yellow smear of resin
they’ve gotten wind of your imaginative power
the spotlights at night—the eerie glow
23 pieces of mail from the Curie house
possibly you’re no longer interested in the mundane
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the first thing I noticed
were the large containers
of sleeping pills
somebody must enjoy their sleep
or it is an odd way to lose weight
or they work at a nursery
( a very quiet relaxed nursery )
or it is a cure for hormonal problems
or almost a cure
a temporary cure at best
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a couple of pills
a simple closure of the eyes
the world falls away
dictionaries are no longer dictionaries
reality becomes nonsense
just snot and chicken poop
arranged nicely
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the first person you see
after passing the sign
“reason no longer hampers
the activity
of the imagination”
William S. Burroughs
clinical precision
so sharp that he has edges
no longer guilty of conscience
proudly singing
a squawking dirty bird song
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dogs in clothes
dogs dressed as Sherlock Holmes
– you can see the hatred in their eyes – little dogs in silly hats
– when the policeman clock off they congregate at the pool hall and share takes and knitting patterns
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the bins full of discarded thoughts unused ideas selling on on line –
somewhere in Russia it’s -42 degrees
chattering teeth with Slavic tongue –
machines are used to crack codes and land you on mars but with no power they are just expensive door stops
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they put a bag over my head – I heard car doors slam before I passed out –
I came round in a capsule heading towards the moon
– computers talked to computers in nonhuman language
– my mind disconnected from the old me I was looking for meaning on a blank canvas – I closed my eyes and though of my favourite childhood toy
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the sleep box
a permanent fixture at the old folks home – nights of bingo and hot drinks
muddled memories black and white days when emotions were rationed – one piece of meat a week
dead family members in foreign fields of naked tress that resembled arthritic hands reaching for French cigarette nicotine clouds –
all actions are logged and recorded somewhere he told me –
there is a tally
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a nation of shopkeepers tiny in the eyes of God – the ant that strays from the whole – FREE THOUGHTS ARE NOT TOLERATED HERE – invisible hands push back – a landscape that needs to be captures – the black star in the sky –
BOWIE THE BIRTHDAY BOY BLOWS OUT INVISIBLE CANDLES
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instead of a door
the sleep box has a mouth
often unstable on thin legs
TOTTERY
the most beautiful woman in the world
comes up and says, “you’re really tottery”
(the most beautiful woman in the world
removes her clothing and crawls up close
whispering, “you’re really tottery”)
TOTTERY BEYOND THE COMPASS OF WORDS
one day you discover that you’ve plunged into tottery
the sleep box continually threatens to collapse
the unstable threshold of life
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the most beautiful and sexy movie star in the world
spoons up close to you and says,
“not only are you tottery but you’re actively teetering”
and you know that she is 100% correct
if you close your eyes
you are not only plunged into darkness
you are also deposited in Dream City
just think—in Dream City without gloves
you leave fingerprints on everything you touch
a machine turns those prints into numbers
peculiar numbers like Charles Manson
when the detectives asked your relatives questions
they said that you were very architectural
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the village folk threw stones
at the gentleman
who suggested that the landscape
be CONTAINED
black star or no black star
David Bowie’s final spiraling plunge
leaving behind the millions of dollars
the mansion or two
a wife soon to be devoured
the telephone rang that day
the voice warning about future plans
“get your ducks in a row”
when I hear those words
Anger takes control
I
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your insides enshrouded in red draperies
they call it flesh but it is more than flesh
flesh cannot stand so tall and proud
flesh cannot whistle or sing
———————————–
agitated by some mysterious agency
a wet tongue licking between your fingers
Daddy has got you a full bath drawn
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MECHANICAL ANTEDILUVIAN EARS
to hear the last sentence spoken
—————————————–
no refuge from God—even in sleep
enormous dongs in search of a target
blind and dizzy with the backdoor constricting
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the earthly self rooted to the ground like a tree
yellow spots in her vision
– postman for the Curie house demand danger money and rubber gloves
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sleep is never a cure
more a temporary respite
– but sleep can trigger images lurking behind the sofa of your mind – odd sock memories littered past like life regressions – sleeping lions at the nursery counting nocturnal sheep
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IS IT TRUE THAT
NOCTURNAL SHEEP
PRODUCE COTTON
INSTEAD OF WOOL ?
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THE POSTMAN FOR THE CURIE HOUSE
OFTEN TOLD A TALE
THAT THE CURIE FAMILY
SLEPT ON BLACK SHEETS
IT SEEMS THAT THEY LEFT
PHOTOGRAPHIC SHADOWS
ON THE WHITE ONES
WHEN ASKED HOW HE KNEW THIS
HE REPLIED,
“THEY DRY THEIR SHEETS OUTDOORS”
****apparently Mrs. Curie left a lewd shadow
****strange men were taking photographs of the sheets
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****women talk to other women in nonhuman language
lazy people end up at the South Pole
a place where the knowledge of God
is limited to information
obtained from the senses
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SILENCE IS A BLANKET COVERING DEPARTED FRIENDS
nocturnal sheep walk around in natural silence
they are often guilty of satirizing ideas and topics
that other beings take seriously
nocturnal sheep wavering
between comedy and tragedy
“the actual exhausted by the potential”
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counterfeiters in nocturnal sheep cotton
one coat of distraction painted over
with a different coat of distraction
every shopkeeper deals in despair
circular reproduction
today unable to recognize yesterday
acute anxiety comes in rental units
mundane survival in view of the smokestacks
pool halls and morgues stay open at night
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after a couple of pills your body became a mystery – a figurine you had no control over – all limbs felt like foam – you became a mannequin – a puppet
the world gradually crept away
the world gradually dripped off the page
the chicken soup went cold
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nocturnal sheep produce metallic wool
ba ba black sheep sleeping
and counting business men going through revolving doors
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images of the curie house turned up on line
images showed keys in stomachs
needles next to organs
an odd shaped kidney
the neighbours other heard faint electric buzzes
midnight dogs howled
the sheets she hung out glowed in the dark
fireflies congregated in swarms
postman swotted their way through them
small kids dared each other to knock on the door
small kids with big knuckles
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inside the sleep box
you thought of Hedy Lamarr
you thought of her whispering Austrian vowels into you ear
it helped you in your cocoon
it helped you when the darkness stretched out
thoughts of the womb
of being inside her
a mother substitute with broken veins
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Charlie Manson with the sign on his forehead – speaking hullabaloo
– fingers deep inside the Fab Four
a twisting of the tale – lost in dream city where the streets stretch through the horizon and fire hydrants sign wet songs
the architecture of your soul is loosened rivet by rivet
the sockets gape
you go loose
– failed planning from the off-set
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spider pills made by American Adamic
restoration pills
bring you back to where you should be
safe from the blight—the blackening of seed
the seed pod cancer
yes, safe from gossip and gossiping readers
yes, safe from hourly bulletins and chitchat
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vivid explorations inside woman—cerebral but with hair
in the background, the ticking of the symbolic clock
romantic paralysis
rectangular obscenities
inadequacies and the missing part
small talk about self-control
and how it gets in the way
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when people say
“Yes, this is Charles Manson”
do you think they play nice ?
it is written somewhere
that being sweet in this instance
would only make the predator stronger
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——-THE 3 DOWNFALLS OF CHARLES MANSON——
(+) DISCOVERY
(+) CAPTURE
(+) CONTAINMENT
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naïve readers
instinct-injured readers
poetic gossip
gossip under years of autumn leaves
gossip under fresh excrement from Robert Frost
the predator loves the smell of droppings
you cannot wash it off or wish it away
****your fancy embroidered poop
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amateur theatricals at the motel
he thought he was in
he was in
only next door
and there was not much dialogue later
about the volume of poop
———————————
it was like one was in a horse race
full gallop
things were beyond tight
it was difficult to swallow oxygen
****self-taught sodomy is the best
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I ask you
“where is the roguery in Robert Frost ?”
not a single reference to hot omelets in the underpants
or an irregular log drop in the restroom
only thoughts about the incessant discipline
of nature
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with his 6ft long penis
he liked to bark orders
to family members
who seemed to stare
straightforward into vacancy
his evening hobby
the fabrication of testimonials
indescribable agonies
he could produce a paragraph
in ten minutes
poetry with male-dominated directives
being a dweller in a man’s body
he was fascinated by the complete male story
his wife (a pure woman-not ravished)
was tired of rubbing hand lotion
on his dry flaking member
she was tired of his fame
“the world’s longest dick”
she was tired of the embarrassment
of walking around with a man
who had to push a cart in front of him
to mobilize his reproductive organ
she was exhausted with strangers
thinking weird things about her crotch
when they made appearances at strip-clubs
the female employees would whisper
“honey, you won the lottery”
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all villages have secrets
brothers and sisters
strange bedfellows
skeletons buried under the village green –
the gentleman picked up the stones hurled at him
he picked them up
he picked them up
the black star would reveal more
Bowie didn’t need a beard
the red phone rang
defused anger felt like a release
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Jack the Ripper draperies
internal inspections
Victorian fathers aroused by table legs –
the flesh made weak
the flesh stretched
a dog wagging its tail
a motivational poster on the office wall
a sale that never ends
bombproof trousers
an empty car park
pensioners at the beach
the poet just sat looking out the window for 12days
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Inuit people so far from a Nike superstore
no knowledge of God
fish frozen without electricity
half their language contains words for snow –
fire in the sky fuels cold nightmares
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sheep and bulls in the field
ufos are watching
her halo moved
a distraction from the mundane
I went to the shops and bought some feelings from the vending machine
–
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a six foot penis
the symbolic scars of the world
a six foot penis
a significant dimension to any poet
wastelands surround the backside of Dark Town
a depraved and ravaged city
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a six foot penis
performing acts of selfless charity
and yet there was some sort of debt
“ye who wear the human face”
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a six foot penis
probing the terrors
of the commonplace
the immense organ
proud of its godlike status
its persuasive influence
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the pills sold by the medicine man
town to town he went
magic elixirs that could cure
unpleasant smells and dead feelings
the small pill easy to swallow
tested on small children in Kentucky
no guarantee they were safe
but that was the thrill
all across the dead continent they swallowed small pills
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caged man
still waiting for the revolution
in a world that has left him behind
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when people see the six foot penis
on calendars
they never think about the back brace
he is forced to wear
or the fact that his nut sac
is constantly being crushed
by the weight of his dong
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some people question the divinity
of civilization and technology
others question
the innate demonic properties
of a six foot penis
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“SIX FOOT PENIS”
those magical three words
indulge
the particularly male infatuation
with the weapon of reproduction
poets are quick to point out
contact with the beast
and you forfeit
your innocence
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vending machine feelings
I enjoy those
with their origins
in the 1950s
( WHEN FLESH STILL SMELLED CLEAN)
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enormous volumes of literature
at the library
about the dark underside
of bombproof trousers
(fragile humans must confront malevolent forces)
school children laughing about the dangers
of imperious science
runaway machinery
that answers your questions
and reproduces your image
Robert Frost predicted that in the future
people would talk to God
on handheld machinery
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saving my money to purchase a device
that will signal warnings
on contact with counterfeit cotton
the only hope
for a man to recover
his luster and verve
is to surround himself
with pure cotton
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for $20 the gentleman would speak to you
through a screen in the wall
about an illicit romance
between man and word
it would seem that man
has a voracious appetite
for the word
sensible people
would say that
it is misguided passion
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there seems to be a healthy dose
of
infatuation
kissing ( possibly open mouth )
simulated acts of sexual congress
stains on the furniture
startling carpet burns
seductive voices
seductive disguises
cinematic underwear
colorful language
and then one day
you see the skins
of adolescent blundering
in the trashcan
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the sound of burned rubber
and then the smell
2 would do the deed
blackened fingers held out 4
“he was a rat-bastard—take 4”
a jaded husband and a miserable life
hard-edged and often expressionless
constant masturbation had taken a price
dulled sensitivities and general indifference
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afraid to go to the poetry meeting
terrified
bulldogged, tied, given something
passed around
in motion
with no proper measure
****physical poetry with overall coherence
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go to jail
and life blooms
with subservient positions
you told them a 1000 times
you had no atomic bombs
you showed them
your phantom gun
—————————–
—————————–
standing in line
waiting to be depersonalized
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YES, there were limitations on the Ark
preconceptions
going to the bathroom was a sorry function
superior human make mess like baby
the men said that they wouldn’t watch
but it brought them great joy
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you were talking in your sleep
about the Bible
how you enjoyed
the collective ensemble improvisation
————————————————
strange skin language
people making God upset
violating His codes
suffering narcissistic love
after all, thinking animals
who replaced noise with music
cannot make freedom and discipline coexist
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making love with the wife on specific days
———-BUT WHAT ABOUT THE
leaping acrobats
dwarfs
snake-charmers
two bearded women
muscle-dancers
homo-eroticized boy scouts
your hand and another hand
———-a bit of denying
but you never confess
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—those that have never heard jazz or played the role of Ringo
Russian bingo for sodomy rights to your behind
irrational restrictions suddenly seem rational
the bittersweet truth
it seems to be lubed
with something
that has a terrible smell
****pool hall term: anal quicksand
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vaudevillian theatrics
buffoonish actors slipping on banana skins
modern day Buster Keaton
– slapstick nonsense from the folks next door – a slap then a wail – a scream
raised voices
a different world past that wall
he put all his money on the horse called Can’t Lose…
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no point winning the lottery if you can’t spend it – her gay husband with the 6ft schlong – something to show off in public but behind closed door it was all musicals and lavender –
– ashamed is a colour
– the diseased pole at Strippers Inc.
– personal attributes, blue eyes and bad tattoos
-baby bird has flown the nest
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a six foot member is of no use
says the president of Small Penis UK –
you can’t miss what you’ve never had
love lorn and lost
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a two handed weapon
a snare with glistening tip
not as commonplace as you’d expect**
– they bought it by the pound
**he was only 3inches but had 17stone to push it home
(could never understand why the the same tube expels waste and life – sometimes
useless meat)
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counterfeiters in nocturnal sheep cotton
wearing total white and extremely quiet
almost three-dimensional
perhaps reinterpreted
Biblical tales
are never complete without suffering
pain and agony come well-oiled
—————————————-
church people are snapping their fingers
to Jerusalem
it is easy to leap-frog to corruption
degradation and squalor
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SHE was coughing silt and brown dust
pessimists were counting the days
as if Mussolini was floating about
just waiting to whisk her away
to where her relatives were vacationing
the men stood in suits and vests
the women with diamond rings
waist deep in a liver-colored boiling lake
where one lost their flesh
before the final living hell
THE ETERNAL LAKE OF FIRE
—————————————–
I found it difficult to speak to the field slaves
they were curious about the Master and his wife
the most asked question was about their bathroom habits
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I hand-copied everything written by Jules Verne
my elephants were blue-black bulls
my poetry just reworked conversations
one can never question their listeners
or satisfy their immediate family
****meet your challenges and stand clear of decay
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medical concerns about the blood pumping – not enough to sustain vital organs and that six foot penis**
– on cold days it goes limp
– dizzy spells and hidden in baggy clown trousers
– even though it’s hidden away he could never keep it a secret
– you could see it twitch
**medical discussion as to whether a six foot penis is a vital organ
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some hoarders bought their feelings but they
kept their feeling hidden away
never used
cold husk acting like computers
– (I’ve seen feelings online for ridiculous money)
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kids only use libraries to French kiss each other in the non-fiction section
– no one checks books out these days
– the librarian is there as a Pavlovian reaction, stuck in a routine
– books are now available on line, on computers*, alongside salvation, Moon rock and Hitler’s cars
People commune with god silently with their internal voice, schizophrenic
*the first book I bought online was emailed to me one word at a time
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sensitive people are suffering the onslaught
of disembodied songbirds
young ladies from all across America
who thought they could sing jazz
stripped-away testaments
and melancholy
on the ground like leaves
Robert Frost has been dispatched
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obscure trivia—anything to get his mind off your face
painfully insecure in the presence of poets
disturbed by the constant dressing down
————————————————
suddenly color conscious in Dark Town
the detectives carry jazz horns
real nightlife criminal types
BUGEYE on trucker coffee
and drug store syrup
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two homeless guys stood at the intersection
holding cardboard signs
(+) HUNGRY—WILL WORK FOR FOOD
(+) AVAILABLE TO ANYONE WHO CAN MEET THE MEASURE OF THE MUSIC
—————————————————–
employed to sweep the arena of Dark Town
a location known for emotionally narrow pathways
the spiritual coming so close to the blues
half the children are fathered by the trumpet
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—STUNT IMPROVISATION WANTED—
they were telling bold face lies
the coffee was not vastly superior
to Starbucks
so many people were complaining
about the lazy dull jazz
people plugged into the free WIFI
their shoes outdated and dirty
real poets were throwing coffee beans
at the Academicians
who were pushing third-rate Stravinsky
rhythmic kernels were commonplace
****just slip in some fluid superficialities
****you too could be who’s who in the boudoir
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grown man and grown woman
naked in the Bible story
knowing nothing
about perpetual
rejuvenation
repetition of nonsense
produces a lack of interest
****an appetite for mindless church chat
****Cyndi Lauper ringing the bell
paychecks, Baby Bird
the money comes and goes
the thrust and depth of reality
it is in your hand
it is no longer in your hand
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JUST PURCHASED A BOUDOIR BRUSH
THE KIND THEY USE IN ADULT MOVIES
GONNA PAINT A SEXUAL DRAMA
WITHOUT THE DRAMA
SEX IN VARIATION
GENITALS WITH ENTHUSIASM
****the soundtrack alone would give Stevie Wonder an erection
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factors that do not lessen the value
of the large penis
———————
an easy bridge to an audience
savage attraction
manhandling (HEROIC)
****a small booklet of bootleg anthropology
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THE PERPETUAL RHYTHM OF CONVERSATIONAL POETRY
commentary dialogue—like when the angel stepped on a nail
all sorts of things, at times, can be alibis for incoherence
avant-garde poetry produced with odd narrow skills
history laid out like the ladies in Hustler magazine
every single gentleman at the pool hall
could sell you bootleg anthropology
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pure cotton grown inside warehouse guarded with guns –
the cotton trade and Abe
– pure white tshirts
LOOK AT HIS DEFINED ABS
– chinese counterfeit cotton
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misguided passion
a dead end romance, illicit
like those folk in Kentucky in love with their sisters –
the $20 man wears the finest of suits, a man for hire
a voice of honey
used to do voiceovers for adverts for German cars**
**79% couldn’t point to Germany on a map
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open mouth so the air rushes in
expanded lungs
explorative tongues
– a wall of masks –
the adolescents will take control
of the landscape and the machines
– a well oiled lever at the foundry in leviathan
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rat fink bastard
black and white gangster films tommy guns at the ready
LOOK AT ME MA
IM ON TOP OF THE WORLD
but your not on top
– robotic masturbation same time everyday the dullness of the routine no longer a release a necessity like taking the dog out for a walk in and amongst grey backdrops and constant rain
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go to jail
do not pass GO
double 6 on the roll
do not pass GO
your phantom gun
held in your phantom limb
I joined the queue just to see what they were queuing for
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school boy theatrics at the dress rehearsal – nervous tongue dropped words
lost position in the text
you memorised all the characters
– music with no context is just noise
– you go to sleep with tissue in your ears and a pillow over your head
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the love making was marked in the diary
the routine
familiarity breeds contempt
going through the motions with a mask on
– Boy Scouts now earn badges in voodoo – camping in tight shorts
– lecherous leader rustling in the bushes
whittling his wood
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they sent a mechanical sheep into the herd they sent a mechanical sheep into the herd pristine white with cameras for eyes – manufactured fur
remote controlled from afar
well oiled they sent a mechanical sheep into the herd
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the lake of fire was a tourist trap
people queued around the block
to see it bubble and boil –
the closer they got their nose filled with the smell of sulphur and sweat dripping and their diamond rings began to crack – Johnny Cash on the PA system –
– the souvenir shop did a roaring trade – a 4.6 rating on trip advisor
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frogmen fishing for flotsam
parts of the ark at the bottom of the sea
– wood and hippopotamus bones
– the relief of the toilet extraction
– massacre by machine gun
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young ladies stormed the streets
old woman walked behind –
finger clicking to a million marching feet – Emily would’ve been there – Marie Curie would’ve been there – Joan would’ve been there –
all of them on the street like leaves
– poetry put aside for a moment
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faltering WIFI made the coffee taste of World War One mud –
a questionnaire wanted to know your opinions
an online survey seeker consensus
– the jazz just sent them asleep, to pedestrian with no experimentation –
shit shoes needing a polish
trainers more expensive then a small car in 1965 –
the blueprints for dark town on show at the town hall
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talk of World War One
without sinking into the vacuous,
the effete, the pretentious
musicians playing tunes in the trenches
foul gas like a Mingus fart
the emotional gravity of such an event
forgotten today, the price of freedom
history only paints in pastel colors
no photos of the intricate details
****mounds of destroyed lungs
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JOAN, MARIE, EMILY
far richer in color and in conception
than those of fellow marchers
talent that still inspires charlatans
****recently a shoebox of unpublished poems
by Robert Frost went without a bid on eBay
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back in the old days
you want to talk about some serious meat
Coltrane, Silver, Adderley, Gillespie, Monk
momma never cried for want
a lot of bittersweet joy
in those penetrations
****seed was sown on the road
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JUST TRY TO EXECUTE A QUICKSTEP
tiny photos of Zip Coon and Jasper Jack
how low
is the lowest common denominator
in Dark Town ?
tiny books full of parasitic paraphrasing
numerous outbursts of inarticulateness
FLARF is King
FLARF dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy
bourgeois pain pills
spider pill clichés
musicians on drug store syrup
cheap whiskey made in Maine
solo porno movies
a large mirror
and a light-skinned soundtrack
———————–
the gentlemen in the Tiny Dick Club
were fond of saying,
“you can’t outsweet us”
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individuated passion———–now that’s the ticket
Jelly Roll Morton rolling numbers on the front porch
a communicative residence near Dark Town
where men hunger for sex
desperation before breakfast
first cousins by noon
spiritual images form
in wet spots
****sexual autographs
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not a single mention of the roguery of Robert Frost
——————————————————————
each night I ask the Lord to bless
tenant farmers and the memories of tenant farmers
I ask the Lord to bless their wives and women folk
the price they paid
so modern feminists
can monkey-walk
in the street
bright pink tirades
with rings of thorns
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I am serious when I say that the smallest woman
in the room was the size of a heifer
but even large people can dance
and dream into the face of drugs
large people can feel liberated
and dive into a deeper understanding
of the printed word
****hum tunes with a lilting tenderness
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vending machine blue pill sex
(+) aching back
(+) sore muscles
(+) calluses
no one can forget their first carpet burns
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trying to write a poem with a voice
beyond words
often aiming for the recognition
of a tragic automobile accident
trying to stay away from love
and its rough customers
Dark Town full of knuckleheads
and dope shooters
LIFE, the way it should have been
frightful to think of false film and television
the doctored documentaries
the continuous line of butt crack personalities
****men wanting to pork you in the dressing room
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cardboard signs that disintegrated in the rain – still hungry but rain quenched thirst – he will make it illegal to be hungry
– people eyeing each other up
– tasty people
– slight basting on a low heat
– bath salt cannibalism will be rampant
(and not just in dark town)
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small booklet lost its staples the pages got mixed up
you started at the end
we ended up in other places
–
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photos lost
the intricate details all forgotten and buried away
likely to reappear at nighttime, accompanied by sweats
screams
a Mingus fart caught at the back of the throat
a smell of mud, a dampness spreads
blackened lungs
coughs and laughs
the silence after the explosion
a field of guts
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the lowest common denominator is
limbo pole low – so low the sewage water rushes over it &
through it
and by the afternoon
the dirt of the morning will be worn in
not washed off – curling baby with milk on lips
gurgling gurgling drunk
baby syrup from honeybear
the internet is 67% porn
and 16% cats
the chairman of the Tiny Dick Club UK
went to America to meet his American equivalent and
when he whipped it out he said, “everythings bigger in the
States”
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the dustbowl is hard to clean
the futility of all life can be located
3 miles up from the dried river bed
where dusty men seem to gradually disappear
without every hearing jazz,
without wearing a pair of Nikes,
first cousins sentiments cross lines
sausage breakfast doesn’t fill the void
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the marchers with their placards
– Marie’s one glowed in the dark
– Emily’s haiku
– Joan’s mask never slipped
– a shoebox with silicone to keep the poems dry
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the lord moves in mysterious ways – jitterbugging to that big band sound – black and white getting it on
heroin skin crumpled veins
– the smiling face of Lois Armstrong, mopping his brow constantly*
*the handkerchief is available online with a certificate of authentication
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I know that woman
that small woman
I carried her around in my backpack
– I left the zip open so she could breath –
– I let her out at a party and she danced the night away –
I carried her home
I carried the weight
fat man sweating after to many pills
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she couldn’t forget her first carpet burns as she had plaster castes made –
– it really captures the cuts, the small places where the skin scratched
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people telling about their New Years resolutions – an attempt to use less words
eat less meat
– a man who refers to himself in third person
– shady street corners lurkers
knuckle staggers with low foreheads
– it’s rough around here
her racist friend learned everything from TV – useless as an empty gun he was
she promised to keep lines of communication open while I lowered the drawbridge
the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence it’s all asphalt
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