Monday, June 29, 2009

Pour Water On Me 'Till I Live Again

4 Poems


The destiny of old futures opens the shampoo coming alive.
Fires under tall breezes invest in the trains we board.
The planes the cars hoard.
It's our fixation getting near.
Hot-lipped ejections out of things to shift.
And calls come in.
The pressure attacks.
Abusive priests begin a new kind of science.
A second phase gives pause.
Our religion is predicted when we board the plane.
The hoards are cars and trains.
And calls run thin.
The many things will shift.
The cash counts tapped.
Our waste restores our fun.
Schools trade children.
Kiddie porn is the norm.
The fruit enjoys a particle like sun.
Pacifist meat on a stick.
The shampoo arrested.
The sun removed.
A consciousness of mysophilia porn.
Lines from start to center without crossing.
Pricks of our havoc.
Our heads in the vice.
A sea of no mistaking.
Shields and swords by the slowing we obey.
Old futures would breach if there were
A different destiny to teach them.


My belly's stuffed with local dishes.
The Caribbean Zen Master Bankei perks up his whip
And whacks it on the corpse.

Too ashamed to puddle, bongwater loses sight of its shore.
And the sun reeks of a pun refusing to relate.
Lover, your grace waves spam as weird as Ahmadinejad-shaped volleyballs.

And we savor this fling when I'm bent down near my knees
Thinking a tater tot will introduce something iconic for us.
But no beautiful and memorable images or languages hold, only

Much that is regressive:
Persian goth girl
Lying flat on my bed like a Hitler bowl cut.

Cigarette ashtrays are more effective in protecting coastal homes and
Villages than storm swells and tidal surges.
I'll piously pay for the sign on a hill that says I'm alone.


Above the raging cattiness and destruction, an ego
Wages crimes and must pass slowly there. I think
I remember you saying time was very different
And I imagined it would, bitch.
I look forward to your return, but if you're levitating I'm calling
The tabloids.
And if you write, I may not respond in front of a museum or
A bathroom.

The spell ended well, but this sounds like I’m going into hermit
Mode, kicking it all
Serious and shit lately. Well, I enjoy sharing hits.

I am definitely startled by your excited, nervous, emotional etc’s.
And regardless I live in fear, buzzed by
Burying my fat head deep up your fat ass.

Honestly, I also often see how my own "attachment to views"
Really has blocked
An exploration of such matters pretty significantly over the years.
It would really be wonderful to have to dive deeply into my own beliefs
And positions to clarify them further.

That's why I quit spawning.
That's why
I'm breaking out my umbrella halfway down the plateau.
Don’t cry,
Fella from the Stone Age,
Lost in a daze of thunder and loose muffins
Carving slick drones.


Goon moons
Paint the trapped soul backwards.
What to drink gets pissed at sullen dings as
Tailpipes spunk a blond Pocahontas cling.
Lowly virgins energized like a fleshy stag
Synthesize the art on the altar depicting two American fags
Swapping God with their butt steeples.
The opposition and other ID's deepen.

Always been happiest while doing nothing
Inside this beginningless thusness.
Convicted of murder and sentenced to yanking, I
Strip the missing link and enrich wedding rings.
A soil soaker symphony, the violin abducted activist, my juiciness
Isolates the radial subconscious of hushed nonwords.
And further south a wild rash pries off its doctored tits, so
Clump creepy cores and pharmaceutical fits.

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