Crucified With the Thirst (on the Side)

my virtual whatsit fell out of my attaché

since then it hasn’t been worth its priceless pottery caddy

I bundled it up in a set of warm bats

put it in the ark of the combatant by Marx

and took it by foot to the barium heights

where the acolytes cohere

to date a shipwreck by its Wal-Mart amphorae

in a voluble mass digestion of gum

asked a gun fuser to cobble me a revolver out of pine

the pain he heard was someone else’s but that’s this biz

the giant gnat of Calcutta one day then canonic myopia

and everyone advertise! now throw your partner

into a roster and debit him for the pleasure

those goodies of Hiram and his Gene Pitney plug-

board strewn like a Lite-Brite the length of the Broadway gulch



“The song of a woman is the shriek of night

of the daughters of Dan and his bicycle mess

of a father was a member of the Tired Skulls skilful

to work in a reference to gold and silver in any chat he had

the brass and sold off brand sets of irons from the back

of a carved stone van in the sound

of timber there is life exploding in purple in blue and in small

pox distributed to your fine linen outlet and in the crimson

of a piratical gallery littered with the Will Gears

to run a dynamo on graves

there isn’t any manner to speak of

but to beat the halo off of a grazing bull

and to find out every battery powered device

which shall be put into him”



wait for the muscle to arrive get as effusive as you choose

do what you deem appropriate with that vampire chamois

the weepers are here to ape each other

and there are no panes that shoot themselves out

so your surprise is a false injective treaty

might be a therapist with a storyboard in invisible theory

or those red rascals in the margin

what are the high biers without their putrefying branches?

I still can’t transpose with this Briggs and Stratton miniature lute

but if you put your ear to the biology it talks

afraid of the truant officer dead since the plumage fell as cerise

from the quarter deck of the Ebullient

in practically female flames

my roscoe is in a natural autoclave I can’t log onto

Captain Peachfuzz uses his dibble to puncture lard

someone must marry Mrs. Muir her opal is decaying on the stem

stripped of the cover of a bed under you

you’ll churn till the beers form

christen it party time on the mount

I can see him as clear as if he were still a flycatcher and she

deadeye at the veneer and his palmate hardwire shedding its colors