Thursday, September 17, 2009


I feel enjoyable
as if I were King Tut
basing this baffling
you seeing me
I or you
on a tinfoil buttering
Aztec visers
handing off the beat
to which I eat
a Roman in guilt only

why even I get
tired of writing all this
I oughta know then to
pair my wit with
your exotically based
window view

even admiring lots
of pulling porks
focusing the lemon gravy
an obvious pun
I oughta build or
at least tear it down
elegantly clinking
my hopes toward
aspiring away from
cheating the gov’t

a sound noise
or veritable
pocket rocket

you’re never gonna stop all the
teenage leather
sex neither nor
young marauding
guitar clinics
sexing the suburbs
in their pained delivery
circa ‘84
through ill-relaxed
window panes

don’t take the brown caulking
it’s a matter of fact massage
bunting out toward
Waukesha or one’s
warlike symptom in an
obtuse sex organ

when we say that
we mean liquor cabinet
the common lyric here in
the Highlands
in the foreground of a
turkey being slaughtered
the shameless lyre acquisition
down through history or
y’know against all
this vague inspiration

we say generating the
truth as a historical imperative
wakes up badly
stick in a toothpick
you pull it out doughy

here’s what you do
sing ectoplasmic gossip
around a hairball’s
autobiography gee
wouldn’t that not for once
be utterly boring

or a non-milk-based prose
a Vulcan Valkyrie
who once managed
the Velvet Underground

this poem is making me itchy
too much Robert Lowell
in my bathwater
those shoes that improve
jumping capability as memoir
lessons recede

I watched a fish die
and that was it
my inconsistent autobio
fueled by airy kissing
under thought ramparts
where horseflies put in the hours
this pre-mulder & scully
when I was but a scuzzy fantasy
a young girl offered
to let herself
be transported to

now I lick women
their lengths
they lend me their
remote love & sensuality
clap the hands in an
all done motion

I need my heart clapped
or at least three views
of the opportune siesta
these adamant
sobbing onto my handlbars moments
come all too easily
I oughta maybe share
an efficably-dosed margarita
with Kevin Shields
at Martin Scorsese’s timeshare
constantly losing Tina Fey’s
number in the most
pleasurable possible way

my face is becoming numb
the sun is rising
it’s a living
it’s a final doodle of tonight
it’s a soft reprimand
it’s a poignant detox

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