Thursday, November 20, 2008

5 Poems


At the heart of Jesus
I'm waking up with a one hour erection in five minutes.
Apocalypse soon,
The next selection shall be slow.
Flowers, herbs, and birds squeeze the computer.
For rebels, a buffet is somewhere to relax away from our joke.
So first the world hurt America.
And second America hurt the world.
So third the world wasn't America.
And fourth America was the world that wasn't.
For all this torture, I go back in time.
My asshole poked politely.
I build another time machine.
I go back in time.
My asshole is still a white-collar job.
I'm waking up with just five minutes to live.
In the heart of Jesus is my one hour erection,
A buffet from somewhere the birds and herbs slowly compute
All that they squeeze.
Apocalypse soon,
The next selection shall be flowers.


Mohammed Atta revives the one day pet sale.
In defense of decadence, you question my missile off.
Here are some consumer names of the dead.
Here is my education in a mirage of losses.
I snort and shops open.
But do not panic amid these gasses and planets, take your clothes
Off instead, and question Atta in defense of pets.
Robitussin gets me so high I think I'm about to die.
I like being high. I'd like to die.
The shops are open, making me panic.
Poltergeists substitute for blood and crosses.
India is Iran, the laptop the lotus, such very sad stories
From feast to famish.
And here blasts my missile in a mirage of decadence!
The education of the dead is used by consumers
To rename bondage websites after everyone who struggles.


Mysticism may only arise following exorcism.
Death it burns in life the unknown impossibly.
Ancestors travel here during the dream
And place their shadows on the rock.
Ephemeral as thought, yet they remember
That most have too much that believes in them.
Two possible paths. The restless present.
No need to reveal yourself to human form.
Direct contact with what could have been corrupts the form
I touch your fault in.
Pain and joy, a reflection of the real,
It changes the end of uneventful things.
I dwell in all pain. I dwell in all joy.
My shadow, its place is on the rock.
The ancestral dream, it believes to remember too much in this.
All natural experiences lead toward destruction.
One possible path. The restless revealed.
My thoughts they move decayed.
My death it burns somewhere unknown.
The present corrupts a form you touch.
In this is what I could have been.


Climbers of noble flurry
Exhale their shadows
And repent.

The desert is weightless,
The wading arouses
Trouser circles.

When graffiti trees glow
Back to bed
Surveillance ends.

Each day I go
Electricity is delicious,
I'm elbowed.

And perhaps implants
Buddy a demon's
Erotic inertia.

I fuck the seconds
Night has a
Drink with.

It's better to be
One wing empty
Fighting ruin.

There is no God
But God above,
Wonder none.


My mutant,
The seasons of the discontented,
My storms rewarding a pesky television,
The shells celebrating their durable fiction,
Those fictions conveyed as orbs to honor wholesome lesions,
And lesions enhance the simmer of pandemic cosmetics,
Her cosmetics impatient with the pace of haunted rampage,
The rampage is purest in cocktails negating bumpersticker tumors,
The tumors graduate from an impious processor,
Our process paints the word profit on t-shirts,
Our t-shirts at ease if hemoglobin erodes mandatorily,
The frequency of immoral paychecks is a practical threat,
Extension chords disgrace stumps of optimism and telepathy,
Advanced humanity so smudge resistant but mostly nightmarish,
And fascinating are salt licks that reign beyond
The bloodthirsty dawn rising inverted,
My season of mutant storm,
The discontentment of a pesky shell,
My reward.

1 comment:

martin said...

I have just begun to read your posts. I have only made it through the first poem and am blown away. What the fuck have you been up to. I will continue on an try not to be such a lazy sot.