Sandpaper tin reflection
Alternate lines of age and waves
From what optical cauldron,
of cold correlative connection,
Three sisters of sanitary sane wage can weigh.
Drums do disrupt the aural presentation,
particle collision,
Of tan ten point game (Blood trickles
like from a spout to
funeral cup
Or black and blue Jack genteel,
In thee ruined
ashy
sometime buried, brazen,
cordial waveweepy
poorchild
(Will never
know skill
vicious, venereal,
tornado, flaccid,
and Always Divorcing
Luck.
This is a game.
Surely looking it the direct opposite of
something.
Fire Smell,
Angry Open Mouth
(Cavity: another poem
another time
But a solid memory:
Your lips that
some... times,
I may convince my infertile soul,
Is just the rancid battery acid
burning, bitter,
base
of my own desire to control,
But surely I hallucinate.
The drugs will always be my friends on
the battered bow of my brow
bucking and baying in the balkan wind
where memory as a function
is an afterthought
and thus
col
lapse
s on
its
elf.
And Carol once told me,
(Or did she show me?
(Was it Discourse
or
Intercourse?
That cards and chips, drugs
and die
Do not make the casino spin,
the doors invisible / dividable,
the theory, obviously
Gestalt,
but obviously Everyone's
Mine ('s),
Are ineffable.
Sure
As you blow cornered cat kisses
into hands that only
Self-Pleasure
The only coin could possibly
erupt
would be
Self
Love / Digsust.
"Face it, Carol,
This could go either way."
The felt is actually a mirror
and the world is green,
The mirrors you sing into aren't
conduits
of vanity
but portholes
peering headlong into
Hell
is what you make it
is the constant perversion of the inverted
is the correct answer
is reality unwrapped
is rejection
is hope and dreams
is what you finally decide
is the color of
your home
your child's eyes
the color of your lover's
skin.
is Charron's copper paddle.
"Carol, this can go one of two ways."
Have you ever crossed a river?
is my response.
Luck.
He guides you,
tells you cooly:
stroke
roll
live
love, Ha
just Hope.
Luck.
He'll be here to hold your
hair back as vomit
erupts from your teeth,
but those lucky fucking teeth
violent
But, Fucking
is
Like
Melting
Butter, Mister.
Only a buck fifty a stick,
Useless when its hard, Ha
But, Don't
Worry
now, it'll melt soon enough
Then,
you can worry about
what you'll be baking, boy.
The room's spinning
there are no reflections here
but rice paper walls
with violent shafts of
blue gloom screaming
Through.
Here it comes again,
Again
the hand is shook
And,
You're hearing colors.
"There are other things in life like butter, Carol."
Does it stick on the wallpaper,
like melting glass
marching on their backs
similar to tears
but slicing furrows
into
The Wallpaper
And drip down in shots of deep run blood
Everytime you manage to remember a thought
Spray starch is your Mother
ironing her wallet.
Sylvester drooling spittle like the Sirens'
eternal wail
is dementia at seven.
You began young and look where
it dropped you off,
Ass bleeding,
bazooka joe, melted chocolate and
semen smashed silly
into your toothless twist of a
smile.
"Listen Carol, I don't think this is going to work out."
You never win.
Snakes don't have synesthesia
when you close
your eyes
and scream,
until you scream.
The Siren's Eternal...
What was it?
A cackle?
A dream?
did it echo?
did it shoot craps
and loose sleep?
A bible?
A book?
even A page?
A page of music?
That's It!
"Carol, sing that song again.
"And, Carol?"
"Don't ever stop singing."
