listen, monster, i’m here to remind you
the ruby drunk caught in your throat demands
a buck fifty for the downtown 1 white
shoe slip-resistant rubber sole the plan
this Philosophy smells of studded club
soda dark liquor hidden deep in books
template matching over styx russian sub
ice cream necropolis kicks filthy nooks
oh no i hope it’s not true i’m attached
to the colors posing at piss station
so unsophisticated my tenses
fall to the floor i’ve missed my choo choo
you don’t deserve a narrative monster
all you get: a spare admission of form
like a dog like a man who can’t decide
whether to use the pronoun him or it
dog who’s spoiled interior design
three heads one asshole no one to love it
michel foucault would have been an iphone
man bald bitmoji man he would have sucked
off zuck in the castro like a real man
unable to look anywhere but in
retrospect is fabulism is a
surrealist koan yodeled from buckling knees
in a space station manned by paranoid
belted purple unfathomable beasts
ignorant to our own intricate dance
i am not a love song i‘m a baked yam
My word
Hand caught in the door
Stuck tight old boy stuck tight
In other words
Or
The password please
Many thanks
Now I hold the key
The bolt begins to twist like a tongue
Therefore
Trans. Michael Benedikt
Source: Aragon, Louis. “Safety Lock.” The Poetry of Surrealism, edited by Michael Benedikt. Boston: Little, Brown and Co, 1974, p. 151.
Photo: Gerace, Joe. “Stuck Tight Old Boy Stuck Tight” Nov. 14, 2020. JPG.
to all decurved contract
workers
both boy
and girl
please note
we offer a paltry 401(k)
cancer herpes
kind-hearted flechette
america
the corporation
complain
the complaint
liable to get nations
flayed guilty imagination
unspoiling
brood parasite
munitions
nesting
in an oval
in a pit
lazy dog
iron heart
suddenly
unleashed
starving
detonating
undetonating
detonating ad
nauseam decorated
celebrated soft
fleshy middle
managers
break’s over!
tumbling
from a cloud
i feel my eye
my wife
glaring
this
ambiguity arcs
particularly effective
clicks i
feel
my eye
my
wife stares
this ambiguity
conveys the
corner
of the physically
and psychologically overwhelming
ambiguity
these particularly
effective clicks
i convene
my eyes
my wife
hunting actions of being
actions of kofi annan
of newt gingrich of
another herd of clicks
i feel my eye
my wife deconstructing one’s sense
being terrified—of finding the performer is particularly effective clicks
i feel my eye
my wife passes on
no action on being this
singular trail of blind bursts
purple chrysanthemums
when he’s locked
in currency
his girlfriend he presumes
can’t smell her rose
his long black presumption
in the dark
it’s nobody’s job
to shine boots
antoni sneaks off
stateless watches
arrange shirts the hour
he’s locked
each day precedes
verde lungs
value in chrysanthemums
his girlfriend dollar watches
blossoming arrangements of purple
he presumes he can’t smell her rose
he presumes blackness further
his girlfriend presumes he can
smell her boots
arrange her shirts
the hour sneaks off
locked in the dark
each day
lungs verde
it’s nobody’s job
to dirty dead boys
in the dark
in his girlfriend he presumes
he can’t smell her roses
he can’t smell her boots
expensive watches arrange purple
chrysanthemums in the dark
it’s nobody’s job
in time
antoni
sneaks off
around lungs monteverde vecchio
even when
he’s locked away
the value of a dollar
even when
he locked
away the dark
it’s nobody’s job
see his
girlfriend arranging purple
chrysanthemums
it’s nobody’s job
to arrange these boots and
expensive watches purple
chrysanthemums
the time
sneaks off
in his long black hair
he is dead
sergio buys handmade leaf smoke
voiding his boys
he
presumes
he can’t smell her roses
in the
dark
it’s nobody’s job
to see his girlfriend he presumes
he can’t smell
her roses
so he presumes
he can’t smell
her beauty
even when
he’s locked
in the dark
it’s nobody’s job
the picturewomen that brought the fair says the flare of mysterious sun nests in blood. the same age i waited for you in the girls we could break into goodness. like as in loved. asleep. you die. no sun in roots and whiskey and seems fair though therfucking the place up, tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i dream of spider blood. like love, with its finger on the bar, i dream of you at scale, just a kid, really, laughing in place. tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i come to understand the girls we made you soak in barnight. i come to nests of you instead. i say lookout with its clear finger. what’s new? drugs wet with clear-air always sitting in nests of mysterious spiderstands they’re sitting out fucking you with stars. nest of mysterious sun. the girls we loved. asleep. you instead say, stay, i look for you, you, you in rootblood. the fair thought-fish, painted-ghost—hieroglyphic dream of mysterious sun in rootblood. the fucking on and ever clutch a dream like love ever asleep. you in roots and nest of sun in roots and place, tangled-in, but older. the same eventualities, laughing off of my fucking stars. i come to the coast, no one’s i light say, i drown in roots and instead, instead, instead. i stood lookout with tears. i come to understand blood. loved. asleep. you instead. i theater the barstool look for you where no sun in the blue-black sea they’re impossibly large spiders. i say, i dream of a mysterious man in a good mood. through the nests of wet fingers clutch the bar rag covers neon clutch at midnight, i look for yourself. good. the blue-black thigh, terror fingers the bible like a ghost—hieroglyphic dreams of tears’ stars. nests of example; eventually the fucking stars. the ripping of an abandoned highway, i dream of oscillating black preserved in some anonymous monkey’s heart, drown in neon; came on eventually, flicked really, laugh—they’re just stars on a path. flare of mysterious roots now love asleep—you, subsumed by coast.
Source: Kennedy, Christopher. “I Called Shotgun When You Died.” NY Tyrant, Tyrant Books, 11 Jan. 2019, magazine.nytyrant.com/called-shotgun-christopher-kennedy/.
“That the paper of record could print such mendacious rubbish is a telling symptom of the ideological sickness of our time. The widespread collapse of journalistic standards in the United States is a part of a general and rapid deterioration of thought, language and, above all, cultural and historical memory.” The New Criterion
myself and the picture is dead not passed into something about their machen mōgen mache knife something i remain facted about that truck outside our home the purpose gruesome videos taught me something we’re next her and her dam; breaking life i am this transition she worlds sometimes with force
“Her friends have given her a toaster, which she shows off gratefully.” Laurent Binet
her dam; breast empathy it was to know i don’t fear death not passed into or through the neck bone someone else’s in college myself and picture her mouth and blood tissue i will remind me by opening traffic to ascertain remain remarkable to beat empathy remarkable to the exact degree of a mid sized sedan in slow mo
“It was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these creatures. A sort of generic or Pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in their very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual life had departed.” Herman Melville
coriolis force something told anyone before she will remain remarkable to sometimes i for a dam; breath something teach me some videos taught me / by the asked to ascertain unkempt her hand she is death failing traffic to sometimes i force myself and my wife to take the asked to ascertain such remarkable scale
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