the tide dropped out while still enrolled puta in the sun scared moon certainly not the heroes darkly begging at the shore’s feet taking advantage the only thing at which they’ve excelled no other way to get it done their shoulder / your shoulder their back / your back the chorus unable to prove anything anymore distracted by distraction comparing work to worry reaction to action syrup to syntax the anti-war movement of the ’60s and ’70s sabotaged the culture their heroes heathens lords of dew acknowledge the abusive sutra turned themselves out there’s hero shit in the street and no one picks it up which is to say everyone refuses to pick it up who precisely is this no one and are you looking for agency representation?
as predicted in a future poem his aesthetic stands itchy in hotlights at the sink washing dishes while thinking up elden ring memes for twitter clout
this is a modern poem that does nothing his hands of caged meat slimes up past his elbows as he lemons this trademarked postmarked marky marked one and only love sucked
into low orbit observation send it said eddie said she hopes the doctor got his dosage right this time this is is real now
despite our collective mfa the mouse squeaks the house sneaks the chinese porcelain every druggie wanna-be and dead-alike speaks at length about cockroaches scampering tightly under skullskin it just so happens that every sortie of weed manufactured across the southern territories since at least the end of the second world war has been poached without the consent of hives worldwide there’s always a paranoid car story he read it
he’s not doing anyone a favor these dishes crack themselves on concrete and file away tortoises tying
uh oh what’s in his hand against character your advertisement of very uncool touching
father on blasted beach the sun has no imagination his parents chose to orphan him is that mean is that the point bed bath and beyond hacked his sorry ass hello william gibson the holy spirit a samurai rides the gyrus orphaned by its slight description
yeah that’s saying it plain the first great passage of the twenty second century opens up this his first novel about the black wall they know they’re on tv too hard to get up this hill without it
the dog sniffs the plastic takeout bag the cockroach pushes around particular brain ridges conspiratorial things let him call the shot is too beautiful to have been composed its eyeline blasts his sacral aqueduct
splash damage vibrant with all that yellow racing thru his gut but vibrant but vibrant with sesame seeds pecked into the ceiling on their way to god chandler bing is a name he just thought of suddenly for no reason your image of god continues to anger the church bell edible and deserves to see the phantom menace in theaters and cut his oh man those three were dead before the sardine hit the ground they were all fucking with him clean out the world for virtue and lovethe lemon said
they were bugs and teeth scattered like water run dry too much coffee for this to be his first time in the afterlife he didn’t write he got them sons of warriors that hiss that service he looked away
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”
‘Safety Lock’ by Louis Aragon
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
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.
