Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Listen to Me
Before becoming something I can put in a can and sell to myself at cost
please read the "You should defile me if" section at the bottom of my auto-
erotic snake aquarium.
And while we’re pleasing me…
Please demoralize the grass under my anus as I’m slipping a finger anywhere
but where you think I’m thinking of slipping a finger. Then take your sin
and silence it, you amplified falsehood. It’s my obesity, they’re my glaciers
and I can see for miles and miles and miles and there’s nothing for miles and miles
and miles. The demoralization has to do with confirming a theory I’ve had since
the day we met, roughly three months from “gentlemen, synchronize your analytically
alien itsy anal probe watchdogs starting the second before…now.”
No, Seriously, Listen to ME
Did you know that the same chemical that’s released AFTER you have sex
is also released AFTER you have sex with a dog? And that the dog understands
this fact? And pretends to enjoy it? Did you know that thousands of dogs
in the same mass grave can read the word “defilement” and each come up
for air at a completely different moment? AND ALL the males will be immaculately
neutered? The females, of course, will be sprayed. And pretend to enjoy it.
But only six, naturally selected, like, by nature, will be wearing my logo thumb-
screws. And that’s how I decided to be a psychic on TV. It beats doing squats.
Here’s a poem I wrote to make men (people, too) want to fuck some of me:
you are indirect, a thinness
at a mid-sized squat station
chosen by your peers to die
unshod. my inclination, though,
is to paraphrase Isis,
“I am my mime, as much as my mime is me.”
consciousness, another word
for sulking, sulking another word
for slut, megawatt. I rule my realm
with a lamented malted hoovered
down too fast for the guilt to attain
maximum entropy. time for a breaky.
kiss kiss. arthur is rimming my doorbell.
(I love how “megawatt” fits right in there
like it was made for the job. now I just
have to remember what the job was.)
Now Hear Me!
OXYCONTIN! That’s that sex dog hormone stuff!
So, I’m all about writing about things.
and noticing how many dogs within a 20 mile radius
are secretly (or not so secretly) thinking about releasing
theirs on me and pointing it out in the media.
Finding a dress that intends to look like a puptent.
Finding a coat that makes me look complex, long, located.
Eating the most ants at the family picnic.
Eating the most garishly decorated spring-roll
at the family picnic then crushing one off the high board
to the song I want to avoid getting married to.
I laicized a priest once before realizing what it meant.
Did I say spring-mattress? I meant hold still while I do my finger-roll.
Running my sipper straight through the dreams of your switches.
I did read a poem, once, see?
Now I’m going to have a three-way with some dogs
and a fresh batch of leeks.
Feel sorry for me, don’t feel sorry for them. I love leeks.
Headwear: there’s a question. I just bleed at the hair when it rains.
Then I appreciate windows that have never opened.
So, now, do I do more than just correlate you with my icecap?
Or do you covet my leek?
I’m constantly running just ahead of heavily armed appraisers.
My biggest Asset (get it?) is this Sikorsky six seater Valium.
Second biggest is my dreamless patchwork gayness.
Third is my static Valium with patchwork gays removed
and replaced by dreams that consist entirely of black sleep
margins. I’ve written, among one other thing, a treatise
on cooperating with trees that don’t elect to cooperate with
my Assets. Then I patchwork them.
What Do You Hear? Do You Hear Me?
Hear my hair being red.
Listen to the rustle of my smile.
My unsoundable carbon.
My grin doctor.
That poem I said was the essence
of summertime but I am a platypus
deputy gringo grinding away to bum
your piddling melody plow?
My pre-stung allergy?
The cello I gave to a bum
to horn in on your theory of air
in the skulls of the Yucatan, where
every man who’s a male is also a male
My sleeping soundly.
My termination of your dream.
The fumble that I am gathering
on a run toward the mile marker?
With a spitwad beneath my skunk flower?
I bit that bee that he might be a lens
through to the minus column
in your undreamt of insinuations.
I left my original misgivings at an alternative
country gig, hoping to tease their skulls
back to the Yucatan to finish my great
So I got thwarted. I’m not finite.
I’m just your current issue of Paranoid Times
shoved under the smoke door.
We All Love the Music of Me!
For Christ’s sake somebody get me a catamite!
Or any silly formulaic defect I can show to the board of directors.
Books are bullshit unless written at night while I’m sucking on…oh, forget it.
I’ll suck on just about anything. Especially a symbol. Most especially a symbolist.
My favorite symbolist is Efrem Zimbalist. Junior.
Watch Me Think!
Why does every man my age seem to want to spackle my stone-
dead tail to his wand like it’s some kind of medal sport?
Why are there so many psychiatrist babies?
And why do they all sit cross-legged
when beating me at “Who Can Lose More Interest in Biography?”
It’s all so slender, isn’t it?
So airily slender?
Cruel, in a way, but still capable
of creating a foremost vodka.
A mission to set fire to another agent’s mission.
Terribly slender and sad.
Like a twit.
Then a gust of availability blows all your dayglo babies sky-high.
Does that veal you can drink indispose you? It seems my approaching
seems to cream to the sight of you riding me like a draft, like kippers
in heat, breast-deep and born to swoon. I pretend otherwise but I don’t
know how to lay. At least not how to lay a PEZ dispenser of Charlie Tuna.
This begins to feel like a charity ball for the disabled baby shithead you
as opposed to the jollier you I automated in my blog monkey’s anus.
There’s a breeziness about it all.
In steerage the Jews lost many of their numbers across the wide ocean.
Why should that make me feel jawless? Why thresh about it?
My fleetness of anus seems to have taken the wind out of your sling.
This brings me back to the militarization of babies.
To the tenses I prefer in the rain. The taint of the rain is fruitful.
Let those babies leaf through my portfolio. Let them become Germans
with thumb-screw patents pending. I’ll never be late for that dance.
I’m a specter, an inspector, an open but off limits sphincter, like you
need to visualize a velvet rope or electric fence. In the rain.
You’ve got fins, learn how to stop using them.
Quit Watching Me Long Enough to Listen, This is Good
I wrote a story once about how you petted a polecat.
You were very pretty. I threw you into a pit.
It was amorous. I wanted to see you suffocate
in the Antarctic with your suffocation serum
just out of reach of your cane.
I bought you a Persian lilac.
I threw you to Prussians.
I tore off your Prussian Disguise goggles
and sent you to Atlanta to serve out the rest
of the season in the minors.
I did a miner once. He liked it like they all do.
Like a pity. Like the foodless. Like my figment
turning to ink. The seizure you mistake
for a caesura because you know there is no such thing.
It irks me when you know anything so I send you
to the Angela Davis Advisory Board for epic pity
and to be sloppily sodomized by those who’ve
sloppily sodomized me in my dreams.
It always happens under an overpass next to a salvage yard.
The killers drink tea then decapitate an advertising exec.
This is usually the point at which I begin streaming.
You just sit there.
Now that you’ve heard my story,
now that you’ve herded my tail,
you turn into a random static pattern
that defies itself amorously.
It wears a fat suit of perfect flannel
and slaps me as if I were young.
You, meanwhile just sit there, jubilant,
thriving in flannel, dashing off poems
of anything happening anywhere
there’s a threatening metal Yoda.
The tension is spooky but you
fine-tune me until I misperceive
a gimp as a potential teammate
and stick my stems in a threaded jar
then flick boogers at your happy meal
with the veal shake.
The frostiness is almost funny but
it bothers me and has since I was
sodomized in a frosted vase by
Mayor McCheese, he’s a man too.
All men like you are specifiable
by the silver in your kill scopes.
Now you’ve gotten up under me again.
Now I think I’ll grab a TV dinner made of
actual TV’s and eat them like I used to
when I was never a teenager, examining
each individual sliver of glass to see
if it shows any signs of having sent
a happy birthday satchel bomb
to my anus.
(A girl can dream. But a girl is another story.)