Sunday, May 17, 2009

Sum We Can Live Without

3 Poems


I hang a cloud.
I’m pulled in triggers.
My portrait is your greatest molester,
Parading portraits of your mother aggressor
Carrying drool for mostly one duel.

The deadly electrified hot spots
Dissolve my apprehensive orientation.
And the streets follow a perpetual beginning,
As I begin to follow
Your short and oral nothingness.

Behold our forbidden solstice, 
Fading out and bellowing loudly.
Vibrations pre-destined, a betrayal or a subscription
Content in choosing to complete
The death already departed.

O bless this food, so vascular after each munching
Of a feared vocabulary quiz.
Your puddle is a feedback forming my tongue’s
Freedom to receive
The implants pronouncing foreign cubes.

I’m hung then triggered.
The clouds pull down
Your greatest molester, all clerk and clues.
And pilots are sealing up their windows,
Kicking out sheets like I drool on your mother.


At least your compassion coils on all fours.
My good life wades
The strip mall mysteries puking up pet bone vaults.
Phones are beeping near webbed priests.

I try hard to wake
The wicked universe,
But wind up just hard
And popular as a stranded throbbing.

I listen to the brittle sponges snore,
Reminded of how foolish maps
Translate explosions
For black static Halloween decorations
Glued to neon lime paper graves.

O I try hard to wake
A luscious bartender,
But wind up half-hard
And dangerous as soot.

My hotel room spreads her legs.
I declare our smoking vapor
An order of noodles.

The morning begs me
To commence this journey with uncut spikes.
I focus my spit on discounted lightning.
I arrange a precious hoax
To endure my blindness sucking yolked wombs dry.
My tender paws dissect the guilty muscles
On all striped faces.

And I'm so unfit for work,
With a bad head full of thoughts
About ending another noble education.
The mighty hose it fingers
My kinder hereafter
Eating the only cow
Afraid of sleeping in a cash register.

O slick fiends of mine,
Fuck bowing to your blubber idols!
While teasing my devil's horn
I've discovered an active stream
Underscored by distance torn.


My victory scrapes its slaughterhouse shovel.
Classic titles of ambush
Poke monitors out of swift desperation.
This is the better origin.

And near the murmuring border,
Notorious marbles pity my poor fist.
My package
Struggles to conduct your murky coda.
Divided containers celebrate any natural effort
That shudders to last.

An obscurity so pure in its refined toil
Pimps a row of shoes.
Our cheap and reflective source
Is perched like a hunchbacked poacher
Gaining an appetite for the potted frontier.

O flayed heavens,
I crave my stalker's jacket of foam.
O my promiscuous savior,
You must steal and crush these sloppy coupons.
Then will begin our perfect origin.

No comments: