…it feels good

when you play my body

luck be a body tonight

it is all a state of J-E-L-L-O

J-A-I-L time inadequacy

prison abolitionism

shipless oceans

to your singing eyes

doom in loving

sail to me

let me unfold

here I am

raging to hold you

nothing can undo

I want to know

if you are okay

this is not a P-O-E-M

suffragette smokers

leading advertisements

a rapist in jail

means prisons still exist

it is not funny

no laughing matter

it feels good

to smell everything

desire a sustained feeling

broken by distraction

no sexual experience

not interested in sexual

sexual concatenation

disconnect from physical contact

from intimacy

beacon of hope

so far gone

no sex your whole life

where I was

I would be upset

I would feel a whole lot of emotions

self-made monies

aspect of dedication

nothing else to worry

about but opponent processes

that one thing you can focus

all your attention

everything else, everything else

melts away

the body might decompose

it is not abnormal at all

I got something that is

as basic and neutral as possible

LAURE’S priest rings a bell until he dies

LAURE’S priest cannot eat

a small amount of air provided

LAURE’S priest gets to death

situation     contradiction

desire    ethics

desire for something unethical

LAURE’S priest makes me wet

something

this intense desire destroys a person

play that sound

peak and break

dip again

you and I go to the same place

it is a wild place

you and I stay there until you and I

show ourselves a ritual

making coffee or making breakfast

desire from the mouth

comes from the mouth

I read about you in a book

no country in or out

future horror

when am I on

I am on…

How shall you fuck without causing harm

the scene, the fantasy, is specifically opposed to yes I do yes

sex isn’t an escape, it works for awhile

then it doesn’t, then it does again, then it doesn’t

How shall you fuck like the Vestal Virgins

where oral sex is good conversation and entering life is a choice

boring adventures ruin time, disturb the possibility life is there

if not by your hands, but my own

How shall you fuck an inner ear condition

understood in terms of the need to relive great anguish

at the end of the movie Hard Candy she hands him rope

I am a sniper aiming for earlobes as opposed to junk

occasionally these more sadistic musings cause you discomfort

cause me hypocrisy

How shall you fuck the pain away

move to the country, eat you a lot of peaches

if buying land is your solution, a negative judgment shall be made

I hand you rope    you know what to do

… I always among graves,

roll back pain.

As far back as I can remember,

I feticide storms brimming paradise.

Feeling somewhat a beast

in my exploits.

Fucking for sportcheck,

peach butt conundrum.

Marie Madeline certainly reads from

the contemplative life.

After the scandal

appears a mark of compassion

on our storms’ serene face.

What came first storm for son,

a perfect naivety scene

a highly particularized,

individually defined expertise.

I, everything, come to the man

who waits.

Celestial trigger hurts

the proceedings.

Suffice sacrifice invested

tender tenderloins

and, now, everything rhythms.

Love dead-lift us up where we belong,

never has jealousy added to character.

Turquoise-eyed monster, unfortunately,

her pools antecede Eden.

I, the torpor, of those long fades,

exult shorts.

Melt down circumference,

a new shape to chokehold.

Cuckold.

I, here is love,

all we have to do is touch it.

Tapping a dicey loan with

the magic wand of financialization,

a memory sums up several days.

At all costs, we will get there

negated and fucked to smithereens,

but we’ll get there.

In fact, it is the only true thing.

Smells of andouille to politics

show up on Friday schemes.

Forget about babies

never imagination.

From this rent hike sans skirt hike

later, I damned pettiness.

Inborn sarcophagus

assorted by the state,

no less.

Big whoop,

of course it all goes down

hellish in a sanitary hand bucket.

I jest, I jest, I jest,

lightly moved the mob’s decision

to off family purity.

All these lacks deserve a lackey,

supportive briefs,

a fluffy ball tickler.

Techniques the size of the population.

I, everything, coated slime.

While each element of industry

saturates plant sculptures

with Piss Christ’s’ godly gasoline

intermingling freely with the desires.

I, someone to be kind too.

Must not pray too hard

or God will scoop me.

Jellyfish rings a dead beauteous

fish brigade.

The neck of capitalism

decides whether living is resistance

or suicide’s only way.

Intimate journals offer sex monopolies.

What is needed, astonishment.

Theoretical calculations,

restorative lilacs cast anal foreplay

for the role of one of Three Marys.

Apricot plants apricot tree,

money commodifies money

is how we account simplicities.

Hear us gasp at heaving language

no massive chorus, no big production,

no bitter moon, no meagre diet

to spit on my grave with.

It seems to be assumed man is independent of his privates

once poured tequila on a fire pit to prove a point to teenagers

this is the way the world ends not with a bang but a gargle

what kind of high does a poetic line offer  

It seems to be assumed two nuclei form one derives two

It seems to be assumed two new beings are equal products of the first

It seems to be assumed equality

the kind of high a poetic line offers lovingly tears the nasal cavity

bloody boogers for days for weeks for all is fair in love

toss gorgeous when all is blown away it goes away

It seems to be assumed a drug metaphor is apparent

when we forget kindness is not how I met your mother

It seems to be assumed your mother has disappeared

as if nothing more than a baby bell pepper or headed cabbage

or a very dense central region of an atom

Usually we regard loneliness as an enemy

when there’s no reference point it is difficult to say I love you

years and years of swiping left make it all the more impossible

Usually we regard loneliness as an absorbing case study for the treatment of deviance

a genesis     wantable unloveable    a river

I just want to relax and die in a detox centre from too much health

Usually we regard loneliness as not knowing what to do with yourself

we cannot, of course, determine what is at stake when knowing

Usually we regard loneliness as cold food

when it pukes its insides soft it is difficult to leave throw up behind without lapping it

Usually we regard loneliness as that which to run away from

I yearn to nurture it in my bear hands if it will let me

No man as wise as when you’re ready to listen to him

thank you, scholar, for adventures in repetition compulsion

No man as wise as his repairs

just leave is not an option for individuals exposed to the bachelor

zinc phosphide disturbs bowels enough to take a walk outside

you may not like rats but they want to like you

No man as wise as ulterior gains

No man as wise as his last attempt at self-defence

ethical and legal strikes strike your subjecthood's back side

the grass is greener on the other cheek

No man as wise as the language of the oppressed

study a bruise long enough    insatiate the nerve

sympathetic fusion and all that jazz

your body   following your head

bite harder next time  no time next

After the revolution you broke my heart

I am shit poor at flirting now without you

this is how I speak to you now I speak to what is

yes I do yes I speak to what is now unaccounted for

After the revolution your feelings for me changed

as mine did not for you but did for you

lovers follow each other   you and I had torches    friends

After the revolution you can never text me again

After the revolution text messages no longer exist

nor do books instruct you and I to love   communicate 

After the revolution my self-concept was your concept

all your far-fetched childhood dreams came true

After the revolution you never call me sweetie

After the revolution what else do you and I have

can you ask? You and I loved, and that was it

The culture has an abstract idea of culture

imagine the mechanism of copulation   twist it 180 degrees

it doesn’t exactly make me want to have sex in one motion

The culture has an abstract idea of approval ratings

The culture has an abstract idea of advanced artistic practices

I like pornography but does pornography like me

every time I watch it irritates my mucous membranes

The culture has an abstract idea of finger fucking

The culture has an abstract idea of sexual fantasies

a cluster of giant pandas encircle my behind  puff huff

most women approach estrus mid March through mid April

women go to the outskirts of their ranges    rub their anal areas

on trees    rocks   deposit smelly tangential secretaries

typing as quick as thought so as to not miss this one day for hating

they do these barks  like a dog   they do lunges and they do squats

The culture has an abstract idea of physical altercations

they have just this one day with a day or two on either side

it all depends on who moves first when the door opens

when the smallest penis in the animal kingdom discloses

In the business of punishment a chokehold either kills or pleases

o musk of gentle Juniper     let's go thank and encourage him

In the business of punishment the cosmo guy is the only guy

an adulterous bigot marries and impregnates in protest

a boring fool who stays at home adorned with a laurel wreath

makes love even madder and names his pets a pet name

In the business of punishment a couple in love picks a bay sprig

forbids the other say hello to anyone other than the other

In the business of punishment areas of interest act the past

bees and butterflies seldom visit that which contains no nectar

In the business of punishment crops whipped with elder will save blight

In the business of punishment a child beat with elder will fade away

a child believed to have been made of wood and lies but the truth is

consent is mandatory and, with me, so is Shakespeare

It girl punk come in through the kitchen window

she got a good job with the Cadillac of pensions

It girl no feel good scraped knees carrot blades

hanging by the seat of her panties half the time

other half she sucking off the devil’s tail’s tall tales

and all shining together prettily sobbing sweet bb Jesus

blessed be the fruit praised be the Lord all Mighty

It girl passes her time in a passive delirium of satisfaction

learns to trust never has to say no which is good

It girl kaleidoscopes consent delivered in a cum sock

patterns of similar heartbeat blood pressure breathing

after a man rapes there is always a refractory period

in which he cannot rape again though is this true for most

It girl capable of great expansion and many more

This one is about spiritual homesickness

as soon as I lay them down it is not helpful for the working classes

This one is about a dumb show on a slow clock and this one

is directly related to their question about penis variations

in its normal state it hangs down lonely

This one is really on spot and this one refuses Dr. Phil

look over their knitting of little red squares of selfishness

This one echoes risk by taking the universe a part

one little red square at a time

This one is a dirty limerick and goes out to

ze zailors I’ve zomething to zell

This one seems to go well I started crying and it was tomorrow

if I were Leonard Cohen I would have died too

isn’t there a way to prevent all this terrible suffering?

only if they clap their hands and mean it yes

I cannot jump rope off these ropes

This way

 

Anymore

 

Blood suffering

Dolls introduce to more beauties

 

Dust to side chicks

 

 

——————————

 

 

I forget the words 

The ones which make it right

 

Medallion

 

Was one

 

I want to say Life of Brain Hole

 

Another

 

I gather a small army

A line, this time, frequented by so many

 

In so many and too many

 

I tell Honey, die as you must

I respect their life’s limitations

 

——————————

 

When the body is no good

When the words not even

 

As we love ourselves

As we kiss ourselves

Fuck ourselves

 

What is the mind’s eye if not a hippie tool

And if God Hates Hippies 

She must hate us most of all for the permission

 

————

 

POEM # 24

Eventing it, I see many fine things that are not true.

& with that I like it as a site for convergence. Fear

that "it" all, like when a button is pressed, would start filling

the room with movements & sounds. Living it. Kinging 

it that I might drag it out. Yoked tears flow both

for it & for this unhappy IKEA shelf. Preparing it. This liver I will

fain fasten, devouring it. According it. Rosy-fingering it.

What succeeds where the poet fails. I don’t have a monopoly

on it. I lift my hair, and there it is, the last servicio. 

Dragging it. Mentioning it. Fanning it with a thick moustache,

 “I’m just – I can’t do it, I’m sorry,  I’d like to, but I  

can’t it’s not up to me.” I give it the best years of my life.

& all I get is this lousy T-shirt.  Daily nostrum.    

Cunning it. Biopoliticing it.  Cutting it. Squeezing it. Being it.

O my like, O my like, I'm too hurt to be clear   concise

& fair. When it believes to be free, I light a stinky bean & go home.

 

 

ZAAM!

WE TALK

FAR TOO

MUCH

[…]

AGAIN,

SO FAR

AS I AM

AWARE,

THE ANSWER

IS,

NO.

 

ZLOP!

WORDS,

EVEN THE

BLADDERED

WORDS

OF POETS,

DO NOT

EVOKE

PICTURES

IN ITS […]

MIND.

CONVINCED

IN ADVANCE

THE DRUG

WOULD

ADMIT

IT.

POEM # 23

After the car crash, this hole on  my face  listens to me

recite the  evening’s  menu. A fridge,  a television set,

laundry  detergent,  patio  furniture,  a zucchini,  a lobster,

a jar of  olives,  my wardrobe,  magenta,  & turquoise.  At the

table, I  flambé this hole on my face atomized  books. Wonder

bread helps build  strong bodies  twenty-three ways. This hole drinks less

than its usual gas fare. I want  to go through  it again  with a quail  

egg on top. Balloon  into an  unhealthy  weight class as  to savour the

taste of herds.  A single  wafer-thin  mint sheets  this hole with viscera.

After the car crash, this hole on  my face  is amazingly still alive.

This hole on my face blasted open, reveals spread ribs & this intact,

nagging heart. Do not renounce the glamour of evil, do not refuse the

mastery of holes.  EAT PREY FUCK THE CHEQUE, MADAME.

POEM # 22

In poem twenty-two, what plays Hector & Achilles if not

highway voices impaled on either side of this Pontiac

Bonville’s twenty-two volt bull horn. They look at each other,

look back at the wall of police cars, & then look back at me. 

They smile, & say, “If capitalism drives off a cliff, it will

do so without any help.” I am a man in a dream who

fails to lay hands upon another whom he is pursuing. The one

cannot escape nor the other overtake. In such wise did I

cry aloud amid tears, & the police join in my lament.