Thursday, December 4, 2008

5 Poems


I order a falafel or a gyro.
The women bless it with special juices.
Our demands are devoured as eight dollars worth of what we snare.
This untamed fire of freedom reaches the darkest corners of our world.
I begin to feel wetness running down my legs.
A hunger for dark places, it is the odd time I doubt.
Storing events and common sense, I am fit to breed a master and a slave.
Mercy is absent from every characteristic passing through.
I do some men a favor.
A newspaper falls at my feet.
The headline photographs 18 feared dead and 90 more unphased by a couple of fingers
Experimenting on my penisshaft.
Everyday there are experiments like this.
The pontiff strokes himself while jiving to the theme song of Rocky.
Some people breed more meat than others.
I do a couple of men and feel the witness running down my legs.
I turn around and wet the women blessing my special juices.
I want to speak but my speaking tames Mormons.
The swervey evenings of early December gather and bustle.
Mercy is absent from the newspapers passing through my feet.
The fowls beat on the street favor the other slaves they greet.
The beak of a crow relieves the pivot where free fingers did meet.
I'll wrap it up for you to go real sweet.


I want beauty.
I want to be beautiful but instead I am sardine.
I want your beauty.
Instead, the pain and swelling of what dies in intestinal and skin rumors found in freshwater crayfish, paralyzed by seizures and crud in sputum, often wonders what crimes are in the minds of those who stare me down and appease my relevant solemnity that I fear I should write you about someday, exposing my true poverty.


I walk around a corner without purpose.
The configurations shaping the corner may be mentally established.
They are boundaries for other boundaries.
Around the corner, it sounds without purpose.
A sound nears, forgets, then suddenly remembers the corner walking over.
Figures lift a center and sides now grounded in floating.
Shapes implode earlier grounds whispering crowds.
Voices appear and begin speaking a sum of their actions.
I respond to the immediate actions I'm fronting.
In the moments I see them I'm forced to act out what stops in the middle of action.
I stop in the middle of fraction.
Everything surrounding me arises, inverts and closes.
Invisible, a drone speculates my confusion.
I'm fed and then floating.
Inverted and closed, the moment has forbidden motion.
The ingestion of frenzy causes pain to my chest and abdomen.
I stare but a staring leap toward hills fuzzy with trees and metal.
I drive nails into myself and skin gushes forth above the blood.
An earlier purpose for terrain slithers.
Inhaling at random, I crawl deterioration.
My eyes are not yet.


On a rainy afternoon my self walked into the forest all bold and humping mounds in the dirt, mounds rising from the lamb, my self had shovels, and picks, and axes, and dug throughout the afternoon hoping to uncover my bones, my skin, my carrion, my perished self so unfit for food, a revelation of the self, to forget myself in time and trouble, and explain the self of myself buying tickets to the rain, tickets to the mounds performing a frustrating reiteration on a frustrating reiteration on.


Brains get chummy once the master conveys a torrid illusion
Called get lucky.
Brains a million and drumming up roses
Once placebos kill the downpour passing before we fall.
Everything's illusion.
The downpour's sequential, a manner for brains.
Our collars get lucky as they're mastered,
And everything's illusion and passing us dolls.
Ideas of the sacred, too old to derive sense from my youth.
I'm pigs sitting at desks.
I'm pigs watching their watches watch.
I'm pigs with points of view.

By day I want anything.
I want anything, but still
I'm an awful pill to get cummed on.
And as you grow the sun I taste the matter where we live.
A lonely when comes after night.
Though blindness is fun, another contemplates.
Be it your breathmint or milkbone, I always make room for strangers.
All is sorrow.
There is sorrow.
The cause is sorrow.
The removal is sorrow.
The way to the removal is sorrow.
All is sorrow.

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