John Stadig and the Delco Generator

     I have written these stories based on facts and rumours about this cousin of mine that were researched by Darrel McBreairty in his book about him (see image). This first story is based on a popular tale about John Stadig. The second and third stories are based on real events. I have used creative licence to present in each story a possible scenario as to how the events might have unfolded.

 

    John Stadig was a very smart young man, and like his grandfather and many of his cousins and uncles, whose family straddled the American /Canadian border in northern Maine and New Brunswick, machines were not a mystery to him. Unlike them however, John wasn’t all that fond of steady work, but for pocket money he’d make his talents available to what neighbours up there in St. Francis, Maine could afford to own machinery. If something didn’t run, he’d fix it and people would pay him. Sometimes though when John was broke and there was nothing broken to fix, he felt the need to make his own opportunities.
    One of his customers was a barber named George Lausier who owned a building where he kept not only his barber shop, but also a bowling alley and a pool hall. In the late 1920s there was no electrical grid running wires out into small towns like St. Francis, so in George’s basement he had what was called a Delco Light Generator, which had an internal combustion engine with an exhaust pipe going up and out through the back of the building.
    One day John was strolling up the dusty road with one hand in his trousers and the other helping him eat an apple that he’d plucked from someone’s back yard, when the hand in his pocket found that he was short for a pack of cigarettes. He ducked around back of George’s place and shoved the uneaten half of the apple into the exhaust pipe of George’s Delco, waited a while and then came back out front to the barber shop.
George was there in the dim room with a half groomed customer, and looking rather flustered. When he saw John he smiled with relief.
“John”, he said “Boy am I glad to see you! My Delco stalled and I got no lights!”
John tsked and shook his head in sympathy. “Let me have a look.” he said.
He went down in the basement and made some noise around the machine for a while, pretending to be fixing it. Then he came back up and said “George, I want you to go downstairs and try to start it when I tell you. I’m going out back, so I can hear what it’s doing if it turns over.”
    So John went over to the pipe, use his jack-knife to pry out the apple and then whooped down to George through the basement window, “Okay Mr. Lausier, give’er a try!” Of course it would start right away. George gratefully paid him well for saving the day and John Stadig was on his way.
    It paid in those days to know something about machines, just like it cost some people, like George Lausier, to know nothing about them.

John Stadig and the Trip to Cook County Jail

(Based on the research of Darrel McBreairty as published in Alcatraz Eel, the John Stadig Files. All of the main events are true, but I have speculated on how the pieces fit together)

   John Stadig was in quite a predicament. Handcuffed in the marshal’s wagon on the way to the Cook County Jail it looked like he was headed back to prison. He didn’t seem as worried though as one would think he should have been. In the van with him were five guys, all crooks and four women, all prostitutes, one of whom was sitting on the lap of the man to his left, who just happened to be Stadig’s partner, Harry    Abramowski, known to the fuzz as Richard Adams. Why was she on his lap? Well, the van was crowded and when the deputies loaded them all in, that’s where Hazel Snowdie plunked herself down. What did they care? Let Adams have a little thrill on his way to stir. He wouldn’t be seeing a woman for a long time once he got there.
   As Hazel giggled and squirmed on Harry’s lap, Stadig smiled as from the corner of his eye he watched his pal lean forward and pull a bobby-pin from her hair with his teeth. Harry drew it into his mouth and hid it there until Deputy Glaubke, the only guard in the back with them, turned his head to look out the small window on the door, then Abramowski whispered for Hazel to slide forward while he dropped the pin into his cuffed hands. Hazel then moved back up against him and he went to work on the lock. Within seconds his hands were free.
At that moment, as the wagon reached the corner of Racine Avenue and Jackson Boulevard the van lurched to a sudden stop as a small boy was knocked down by a black Ford Coupe which had now stopped in the middle of the street in front of the prisoner wagon as the driver got out to check on the boy. The arrest-wagon driver, Deputy Edward Smith shouted back to Glaubke what had happened and as he and the other man in front, Deputy Ben Goldberg got out to investigate, Glaubke opened the back door to get a better look. That’s when Henry passed the bobby-pin to John Stadig, who was quickly free of the cuffs.     They both rushed Glaubke, knocked him down, jumped out of the van and dashed down the street.
Glaubke shouted as he got up, Smith and Goldberg ran to him. Seeing what had happened, Deputy Smith trained his weapon on the remaining prisoners who were still in the van while Glaubke and Goldberg, weapons drawn and firing, chased after the runners. Several bullets whizzed around Stadig and Abramowski but they had quite a head start and and the distance made them harder targets. Every shot missed and the act of shooting slowed down their pursuit.
   Meanwhile at the front of the van, with a word from the driver of the Coupe the young boy on the concrete miraculously jumped to his feet and smiled gratefully as the driver tossed him a silver dollar. As he skipped away, the driver got back in the Model B and sped off in the direction that John Stadig and Harry Abramowski had run. He picked them up a few blocks away.

John Stadig on McNeil Island

( the facts in this story are drawn from Darrel McBreairty's "Alcatraz Eel: the John Stadig Files")

John Stadig was serving six years in the federal prison on McNeil Island, Washington for counterfeiting United States currency. It was a month into his sentence, and since he’d so far been a model prisoner he’d earned the privilege of shoveling gravel in the pit of the north yard. A one-and-a-half-ton green Fargo dump-truck driven by prison trustee Charlie Powell, was just backing up to be re-loaded, and until it was in position the other prisoners had nothing to do, so Stadig was there with the rest of the cons, just leaning on his shovel in the pacific-northwest drizzle of mid-April. As the truck lurched to a stop John turned to the convict next to him and whispered “It’s now or never Mack.” They both dropped their shovels. Mack Smith, who was in for robbing a post office in Cheyenne, opened the driver’s side door of the Fargo, grabbed Powell by the arm and yanked him down from the cab and onto the ground where his body splayed into a cloud of dust. Smith climbed inside and slid over to the passenger side while Stadig quickly jumped behind the wheel and closed the door as he shifted it into gear and stepped hard on the gas. The truck thundered towards the locked gate of tower number six and smashed through as bullets rained down on the roof of the cab from above. The vehicle charged the second gate and managed to break through but the second impact caused it to stall just outside of the fence. This gave the guards a chance to steady their rifles before the inmates made their desperate dash from the cab to the nearby forest. Stadig, with his longer legs, was ahead of Smith, but when he heard one of the guards’ rifle shots followed by Mack’s high pitched grunt and the sound of him thumping to the ground behind him, he knew he hadn’t just tripped. He couldn’t turn around but just had to run faster, while Mack’s pained voice behind him shouted “Run John! Run!” He began sprinting from side to side to make himself a harder target. The woods seemed miles away and he felt like he was running in slow motion, though he’d probably never run so fast in his twenty-six years. He was surprised to find himself reminded at that moment, even as bullets were making small dust explosions around his feet, of all the times he’d run away from school whenever the teacher’s back was turned back in St. Francis, Maine. He remembered dashing each of those days toward a line of trees, much like the ones he saw now, but those trees lined the St. John River, and he was running then to cross over to Canada where he could visit his mother who lived there. That was freedom in those days, but that was more than a thousand cigarettes ago and John felt like he could taste his lungs now as they gasped a barking protest at how far away those bushes still were; his teeth that ached from sucking air, and his chest that felt like it was being dented from inside by a hammer, both agreed with that complaint. But as another bullet zinged and then ricocheted off of a rock behind him, he was surprised to discover that he’d made it to the trees, and was safe, for the moment.

Now that John had a moment to clear his mind he could ask himself, “What the hell were you thinking?” The plan had been to race the truck to the ocean, find a boat, and make it into Puget Sound before the guards knew what hit them. If they could have reached the open water they would have been harder to find, since the prison only had five vessels for searching right off the bat. After dark they could have made their way to some remote and unlit stretch of the Washington coastline. They’d even agreed that if they couldn’t locate a craft they would’ve been willing to attempt the swim to the mainland.

But to say the least, things didn’t go smoothly. They not only didn’t achieve the shore, but now there was no longer any “they” at all. Mack was either dead or back in custody and John Stadig was alone as he ran deeper into the woods. It was going to be very difficult to make it from trees to ocean on foot because he’d have to expose himself to possible gunfire again. The prison probably had at least fifty armed guards headed for the forest, and suddenly he knew what it felt like to be one of the deer he and his friends used to hunt back home in northern Maine and New Brunswick. He’d just have to find a place to hide and hope they didn’t find him. Maybe after dark he could get to the beach, though probably not. With the original plan flubbed his chances were very slim.

He was deep in the grove now but could still hear filtering through the trees behind him the chaos his escape had caused. The emergency lock-down siren was screaming continuously, the muffled shouts of guards and the noise from the engines of vehicles leaving the gate caught his ear as the search began. His ears picked up the ragged snore of handsaws to the beat of clanging hammers, and he guessed they were making desperate repairs on the fence he’d smashed.

On the edge of a clearing he found a thick patch of blackberry bushes and plunged into their midst. As he ducked and crawled to get to their thickest growth he was wishing they were in season, because one way or the other he was going to be missing dinner tonight. He saw nothing there to eat and if they did catch him he’d be in the “hole” without food for quite a while.

Once he’d found a hiding place and settled in, there was nothing to do but to think about what had led him to this point. Why would a man in his mid-twenties who could have gotten parole in less than four years try to escape from prison? He should have been able to put up with fourty months or so of incarceration, but he didn’t think he could. He thought about how his brother Emerson or his half-brother Jonsie could have probably handled a sentence like his on their heads. They’d worked every day in the machine shop, fixing cars from morning till night since they were teenagers. They were used to routine, but John had always seen their life as a caged one, so for him penitentiary time was something worse. For John Stadig, the big house was hell and he was sure he couldn’t make it even two years, let alone four.

John could now hear the roar of boats as they slapped the choppy waters around the island in search of him. Listening to those vessels reminded him of the river-craft he’d motorized a few years back in Maine. He’d done it on his own time in his cousin’s shop, hoisted the engines out of old cars, adapted them with propellers and installed them in rowboats for the purpose of pushing rafts of lumber to shore against the strong currents of the St. John River. Even at that very moment as he crouched in the bushes on the west coast, those two boats might still be ramming logs back east.

From a very early age John Stadig had shown a raw talent for working with machinery and electronics of every kind. He felt that he’d learned more as a boy from tinkering in Raymond’s shop after school than he’d ever learned in his eight years of yawning at the blackboard. He also had a genius for invention which he’d first discovered it when he noticed that Model “T” Fords couldn’t go frontward up a steep hill because the incline put the gas tank below the engine. That’s why in the old days people would have to back the cars up, turn them around at the top of the hill and then go down. John came up with a simple pump and hose system that corrected the problem. Not that it mattered though to anyone who owned anything but an old Model “T”, because by the time he’d come up with a solution, the Model “A” was in circulation and the design flaw had been corrected.

He’d arrived at plenty of other inventions and improvements for tire pumps, radios, generators and wind turbines, but once he’d reached his twenties he thought he was really onto something when he started getting the inspiration for a better airplane engine. His dream was to enroll at the Tri State College of Engineering in Indiana to learn how to draft his ideas, but money was a problem. The Great Depression was in full swing and he could never get work as a mechanic for long enough to save the tuition. In 1931 he spent several months traveling to Montreal, New York and finally Wichita, trying to get a bite on his designs from various airplane builders. But it was not a time for financing new ideas, it was more a time to hold on for dear life and ride out the storm.

It seemed the only thing that paid in the 1930s was crime, but John Stadig couldn’t bring himself to threaten someone with a gun in order to rob a bank. He’d discovered though, a few years before, that besides his mechanical and electronic skills he also had a talent for chemistry and photography. During these hard times counterfeiting didn’t even seem like a crime. The government and the banks had thrown millions of people into poverty and desperation. Those who’d been rich were throwing themselves out of skyscrapers, while folk who’d been poor but independent were now starving and lining up for hand-outs. But according to lawmakers, the bankers who'd lost the poor people's money in the first place weren't the criminals, but rather the poor people who tried to make some of their money back by bucking the system just a little. Yes, John had copied a few bank notes, but he wasn’t trying to get rich. He’d just wanted to help his mother with the mortgage and pay for his education.

While John was reflecting on his past, Finch Archer, the warden of McNeil Island was thinking about where John Stadig was at that moment. He was fairly certain his men had him surrounded. Every available guard, with rifles, machine guns and pistols at the ready, had been sent to beat through the heavy brush in search of the convict. Given Stadig’s history of escaping custody, the powers that be would say he shouldn’t have been allowed near a truck. If he managed to avoid capture it would have been embarrassing for both Archer and his prison, so as an extra incentive a reward of fifty dollars was offered to whoever found him first. That same prize was dangled by radio to the police on the mainland. This was big money in hard times for a cop or a guard.

Stadig managed to shiver in hiding through the cold, damp night while flashlights darted all around him. He held his breath when boots crunched down on twigs close to his hiding place. His stomach was empty throughout the next day, and his body was stiff from curling himself up as tight and small and still as he could. As the second afternoon came to a close he was starting to hope that he’d be captured again just so he could move and eat, even if only in a dark cell with a piece of stale bread once a day. That crust was beginning to seem more and more delicious the longer he lay there listening to his stomach on the rough ground.

About thirty hours after his escape, at around 7:45 in the evening, a guard found John Stadig crouching in the bushes on the north-east corner of the island. He sighed with relief, surrendered, and was immediately led to a dark cell for the next sixteen days as punishment. During that time he ate mostly bread and water, though Christian charity compelled the prison to give him a full meal on each of his two Sundays in the hole.

Two years were added to his sentence.

The Gumby Manifesto

Gumby is made from that stuff inside of us that never stays the same,

but which can rest in the same place forever.

Gumby oozes in and out of the cracks in the walls of money.

Gumby's poop is currency in the slums of Heaven.

Gumby is the unseen third sex that we strive to become in union,

a squishy blending of parental archetypes.

Gumby is the absolute truth that is only defined by lying

as lies dance the pattern of Gumby's shadow.

Sometimes the cold world freezes Gumby into a particular shape

and he/she becomes messiah or prophet.

Gumby is the mannequin God uses when he sews a new species.

Gumby loves to play on the double-helix.



Gumby is not edible!

Gumby is not edible!

Do not eat Gumby!

Gumby does not taste good!



Gumby however may be taken orally to retrieve your keys

but only if you haven't lost your gag reflex.

The National Enquirer reports that Gumby is Barbie in drag

while in a state of suspended animation.

Gumby is kryptonite for the terminally inflexible.

Gumby is everyone's achilles-high-heel.

Gumby is the stunt-man who steps in to spend your dark night of the soul.

Gumby is the bliss in every traffic jam.

Gumby serves the only free lunch you must give everything to eat.

Gumby is a mushroom cloud omelette.

Gumby is the magnetic field where we harvest our radios.

Gumby is the snowstorm twixt commercial and show.



It aint over till the fat Gumby melts into your dessert,

extends two arms from the centre

of the whirlpool that your pudding has become,

and at the bottom of which a mouth that has formed asks

"Please sir, can I be more gruel?"

The Gumby Bible

Children covet their parents' freedom and parents covet their children's,
freedom is creation and communication,
and communing freely leads to procreation.
Without creation, freedom is unattainable.
You must freely create it to get the feeling of how cool it feels.
I eat technology, I drink media!
More is one less than infinity,
and every moment a cross-section of eternity,
a dense bluey form of interconnected infinity
within the bowels and jaws of a child.
In a world of impurity the child knows how to colour silently,
our jealousy destroys innocence.
Arbitrary Arbus, are you crazy?
Choose your roose, goose, Sunyday.
Arbitrary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?
Little lives coveting speckled rays of knowledge from the unreachable.
Straining for a growing place to come back to thine truth does bodily,
the shape-shifting truth is always changing colour, frequency, texture,
she was barred, bitched, you ate it- and she's gone,
and I'm hungry, and I feel sick, and tired,
and ripped, and gone, and wired to absence.
Absolom of the papacy limited children of innocence,
dag and stab the inno-soul circle of patronage,
suck the smug and frug on 'til blood's spawn has flud.
Warm, juicy mess, she loved it
and again triggered the swamp sweet source,
blood red, all over my fries,over all my fries,
red, blood red, blood red,rendering me indescribably blue,
bluish light of the flames that burned Joan.
Oh man, we're on the front line
running past all the wrong signs.
Take me to a place, I'm looking for a place,
but which way at the fork?
Nothing making sense, hell filling donut,
I am profound as a toad, smog-lipped crumpet,
hanging human, the sticky retracting cock.
I'm too much of a voyeur to commit suicide,
I do not wish to hang vasected,
I wish to hang tongue-tied by my words,
sanctimonious, indulgent shit--help keep it alive!!
Crying alone, clutching my bloodied fries...
Stop! You're making me want to scream!
A clean shaven nightmare is as good as a dream,
it takes so much longer to grow it back afterwards though.
Begun again, he's scraping it off the dream,
scraggling about the abode with flow,
yeah, and it's all here when the symbols are shattered?
To dream a dream of death alone,
tacky, tacky, tacky, tack, tack, talk-talk,
oh yeah, oh yeah, shake your booty!
Do you walk to school, or do you take your lunch
to push down the throats of all readers hope?
I'd like to spread my body so it touches all angles of the Earth,
I'd like to take your body so it touches all the phallic symbols.
I'd like to take your body, take my body,
create the body everybody craves
and loves and leaves for another.
What matters more or less?
We begin again with another mess,
let hope be born from endless chaos.
Isn't endless chaos a contradiction in terms,
and isn't dead dirt just a constipation of worms?
Why do you ask me this when you know it just makes me tense?
Because you possess endless amounts of beauty
which shine across the horizons of heaven into the open galaxy.
When you ask "What are the qualities of life?"
are you seeking, helplessly harvesting heaven's hazards,
and ending up eating the sky's excrement?
I pretend to slip into a drunken spin,
falling from my petty broken terrace,
then I sit in my heaven, looking back through needle eyes,
trying to fit the thread through the hole of a drunken ass,
trying to seduce himself for torture and gratification,
to suck the monster pussy that would swallow him whole,
clothes and all in his erotic daydream.
Yagga yagga wooga go nami ne, nek nek nyyeehieeeh!
Take me home in cab, on a horse, or on your back,
but it's not a smile, I miss my smile;
buried at birth somewhere beneath my mother's heart.
At thirty I found it again, but tarnished and cautious it is.
Breath, life, live; so; 'cause there's a lot of beauty
and love is just a cancer, eating gravity,
but your love Baby is just a lot of bubble snapping inside me, inside.
Strange feeling, woman now is the foil,
as your painted face bleeds to ease,
backing against doors to unconscious streams.
Windows must be tried when doors won't open,
many eyes are open but few can see,
activation and alien laughter-369.
Act, live, die, ride up or down, goodbye.
Arms, legs, sex, soul, mind up-down, hello.
Sit still, the running goal it hurts now we're old.
In younger days I thought sex was the answer,
now I know it's really a question.
Yum dee luukidee lum dinga doo nik nik nee yowwoooh!
Oh Baby, oh Baby- stop - oh Baby, oh baby, I am invisible.
I know why sometimes I get frightened.
Stop, yield, no stopping, doh!
I need dough to knead some pizza for your party
and seven dancing Salomes beneath a cheesy veil.
Seven veils gone and a head on a platter,
and yet the veil is only stripped away to show nothing,
but nothing is nothing new, not in this state,
but if you wish to pretend, uncountable options are inevitable.
A world of choice but the moral path is not inevitably the right path.
A fork in the road or a fork in the eye, like a cry in the night,
like cherry pie, please don't die or even sleep or dream,
please don't die, but keep a wary eye.
I'm very weak and worn, and will probably die before morn,
and will die saying "Yaargggh aarghh yekky gag boola,
you are all covetous, covetous, covetous fools."
She loves you ya ya ya,
here's another radio station despising the ways I move
under this naughty blanket,
caressing voluptuous shadows,
I see inaccessible lands drawing near
with shadows of monsters that mirror our beauty.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?
The caterpillars have conquered the kingdom
and march, screaming "Ecki! I am my own monster
and so I have nowhere to hide,
not under the bed, but the monster in me
is not as large as the monster without.
There are four walls between me and there,
four walls, and I choose not.
To climb would be useless, so I sit,
I sit and wait for the monster
and summer knights have failed and returned empty handed.
Oh God! They have been feeding me too many intellectual pills again!
I see a streak of red and yellow on the flesh in my mind's eye,
spills into the night scary monsters.
They gather from the four quarters,
equate all horizons under the pale sun,
and bond together, then we are one,
now sun blessed, our shadows warm,
a melding of spirits congregates in the smoke
to adjourn their verdict of truth-semi-truth.
Rin tin-tin a dooky dooky bop bop-bop bopkeedooky dooky oh an a loo.
Not yet begetting the the threat, we met in bed,
flip-flop, comme ci, comme sigh beside the thigh,
so slightly wet upon the lip-slop stain of head,
ahead of my vision, drizzly drooling in front,
a sparkling silver vacume swirls dusty vampire forms,
and then a sudden movement, a jerk,
oh no, it was not him, and that motion.
He was run over with the car every Tuesday,
but as part of his fantasy he was living for it without knowing what it was,
so Tuesdays kept him alive for a while.
Aesthiate browande vorgestert ersatz von deragesausust koustwerk.
My third husband never said anything that made any sense to me,
but he was always my favourite,
though I never told him so,
because I knew, I knew he would spit in my face,
then rip it from my skull and keep it.
I'll never see it again if I allow him the favour of the glance,
mirror or not, my hand through his hair, this close to his mind,
nobody, not even the pain has such small thoughts.
Wicked dreams will make you think and fuck you over
with side-effects of electromagnetic feedback
within the cerebral vortex mushrooming.
I'd like to lick the spittle in the cerebral vortex
as you sneeze the orgasm of creation.
A figure alone with their own sensuality caresses the sky,
I saw him walking down the street,
I saw him tickling toes and with grace he went,
moving away, disappearing around a cruel awaiting corner,
the kinda corner you never walk around,could be hiding anything.
I followed him, followed him, thinking,
then lost patience or interest. It's probably a good thing.
He turned down a street I didn't want to be reminded of
and then the street met with unreality
and I saw Muddy Waters.
No orgy is ever seen in clothes
and so I shed mine and offered my pineapple,
which was large and ugly but she liked it,
masochist as she was, embracing the cyclone,
and I took it upon myself
to stamp this sickly fruit out of sight.
Erackshun of the small animal thing, aught ollnn,
what's going on here? Part ache of bread,
I'm getting so lost in that hair,
Spanish and some Swiss heavy attitude,
but you deserve to be lost as well,
just fuckin' around with friends and youth
and parts of Joe's motorbike.
The new carries the promise of the release from boredom,
the permanence of possibility, viewpoints of stone,
and speak as well as the hills in winter,
cold purity, granite, lettuce, lattice, let us, letters,
a prayer shawl made of words, wicked, working words,
the sword of tonguedom did wind it through my teeth.
Stretch and pull, but don't snap it,or it shall recoil and trim your lip.
Oh well, that's life, they words, words, words.
Don't say, say "Dido, inflate the bread. Inflate the bread!"
Dick blurted the serious wordsthat mumbled a festive passion
where we spirl our dreams with razor lines
drawn through deprivation, drawn down the damp,
reeking alleyway nights,staggering the hideous.
Let Venus thrive and Mars beware,
yong mella wooga della doo,
long live the caterpillar regime,
the chiropractic monkey queen,
back, inching back, reverse the tree-root dream,
changing in time, nothing the same,
perhaps though later, someone or something would show I'm an alligator.
Placing lace on a silver platter he shouted loud that he had failed.
You can't help but associate.(Read next line in a baby's voice)
Turtles can fly, yes they can,and a stranger on a stranger Thursday,
way past midnight's stroke,oh her charm and her costumes,
her finesse in the slipstream,I guess that's convenient.
We needed a motel
and I wanted a change of atmosphere.
A new hand of cards,through imagination's realms
of flat-faced smiling people swearing
"Nik nik nik mowoooh, ecky, ecky, ecky,
liaise mon cul espere de lingue!"
and no one will really notice the track marks etched deep in your skin,
and your friends crying in wondering why
what that smile upon your face.
You then sit back and understand the pictures, patterns and experiences,
because when you die you're just worm food anyway.
Read "The Confessions" with no preconceptions or judgements.
Verbal, same shit, different fuckin' day,
and the one who wonders wait,
but the one who waits never really wonders why he waits for wonders,
and children scatter, drop like flies.You say we grow up too soon; bull!
The holier than thou attitudes
of the insecure and weak disgusts me.
Vladimir wants to know where Erzsbeth is, and vice versa.
Okay, cut the crap. Let's take your mom's car,
I know a place, fourty miles or so.
I spent a pleasant weekend there with Medusa,
whose snakes coiled around my body and made me numb.
I pondered long the way at that,
I have never forgotten,
but what kind of stuffing had been used?
What medicine created the distinct flavour?
And then I remembered the tightness of its long fingers,
writhing and sucking my poison, adding its own,
and it twisted my bowels
and spread through my body like carbonated menthol.
I called it orgasm,
because at the time I was saying
against them tee-vee shows that are designed
to fool people into a sense of security,
but in my deepest soul I long to be middle class,
or at least have a middle-class mother to rebel against.
Cobras, boas, adders, asps are so often less serpentine
than the coils of erstwhile friends.
I digress. I know a place, fourty miles of years
and un-spooled cassettes,and phone bills, and gum wrappers rattling,
and yet I seem to smile upon those fourty miles of years and a hedonism budget.
Oh please stop spewing your filthy lies.
Just open your mouth and scream!
You know how to scream don't you Rick?
If you do, do it in rhythm,
let it ring through the bending treetops
in and out the open doors of strange minds.
Quit screaming at me though.
My name is not Moe,
it is glass being passed through the innards of the wandering vagabond.
My eyes turn red when my life turns blue,
so fuck you and everyone who looks like you!
I'm not a victim of the city, I'm a product.
I'm a product, I am here, but I long not to be.
The highway calls me with the allure of faraway places,new sunrises, adventure!
The road slips away behind me in my mind,the countless dotted lines,
opse sija kreacijom je samo kreacija opsesija.
So you think you can just say something in that voice?
Why don't you make me happy you fuck? Fuck me!
Sunshine, the love of, cannot be, expectation,
taking my worth, I watch, want,
falling forward,shattered chunks of God,
inside out of being there.
Here I am sitting on my suitcase
and I can't find the catch.
Fine print is difficult to read when there is a koala on your glasses,
ravenous fish and tasty plankton,
incisors chew thoughtfully,
the eyes want to sleep, but the head is no mattress to fall through,
fearing death.Yesterday, yesterday, yesterday
they spoke about their promises,
today, today, today it's still about the same,
but tomorrow we'll wait for the change
that will open everybody's eyes.
Sometimes you just can't win.
Mr. Potato Head has no soul.
They put me in the goal, Molly.
Nation fascists range the Skybowl.
Matter and anti-matter, what does it matter anyway?
Something, for sure, problem is, saying it doesn't mean much.
Landing, ever landing, protrusions on the face of space,
godly taste finds credence in can-dancing,
writing impulsively when wee bit stoned
makes everything except coffee irrelevant.
We're on the hope to Princeton Highway
and if we stray toward Highway 61, farewell.
Ants crawl under old, ancient mirror of asshole apathy.
Fuck us, fuck us, fuck us remorse.
Falling forward is progress,
forwardness would be progressive, as I keep falling deeper.
Twas bet'a to say "I like to like you", than to keep on with this lovin' in Fall.
Twitter, twirl, wind whirling, longin' on,
tunnelling in the deep well, like, to love, love, to inner death.
Godzilla was a Christian Democrat.
Vote for Rodin of the Audubon Party and vote for a real veeblefester.
Ay Billy, falling is always a bad, scary way to wake up,
even if you're awake already.
Well, you can't help but associate.
So the problem of humankind is the arrogance that all have,
and hypocrisy is the vaseline of social intercourse.
Rise to the challenge of impossible misunderstanding,
or else under the standing muse, impossible challenges rise
to greet the newborn truth with a lying lullabye,
swaying in the treetop, afraid to cry.
Nineteen-sixty-three to nineteen-ninety-three,
everything is a circle, and a circle is perfect, if you see.
The Moon falls deeply in the swirling pool of dark, crimson blood.
Break through! Break through! This is too staid!
Howl! Howl a wolf-lullabye!
Earth vibrates as firm as water comes to move over
and permeate the circle of light.
Love is not a game. Love is life, love is short,
love is blind, make it sweet, love.
Hallowed heads froth and foment, blowing bliss on the crests.
Demons drop on my tortoise head, leave climbing sea-serpents.
Thank you for tempting, I'm not interested.
Thank you for opening me to love, I'm interested.
Is poetry a page of clean, happy snow
that drifts across the landscape
under a pale and hungry moon,
blank clouds drifting across the tempting expanse
of the blank white page?
I love the smoke. It reminds me of the ethers I once dwelt in.
A blank canvas or a blank page is terrifying
and the flowers remain frozen, but Peter may give them life.
"Much too sweet! That is not life for me!
Much too sweet!" said the police officer
without a hint of bitterness, saccharin, but unpalatable.
They turn, knives shining, their eyes,
then we talked about the laws of love incomplete,
and the incomplete laws of life.
"Everybody has their own personal sorrow" he growled.
Yeah, and what about the orgasmic joy, orgasmic creation?
Love you baby. You really move me, move me,
move me, yet I have gone nowhere.
A city of so many, yet I have yet to meet friendliness.
Amongst a sea of goateed artists
my facial hair fails to grow,
so how can Jesus shave me?
The answer's simple my peach-fuzzed friend.
The juice from the forbidden fruit
makes the facial hair grow more slowly.
You'll shave less, know more.
Facial hair fails, razor rusts,
Jesus shaves his stubble at the bank,
all are God, all are Son,
seek within and the war is won,
those who shave the shadow off the Moon,
these are just words on a page,
the paper is simply a dead tree,
layers, layers of consciousness,
revealed only in destruction, peeled as an onion.
The tangy taste of truth is often bitter to palates of fear,
and trampled fear remembered brings to our eyes tears.
Who's listening, and if they are, or ever were,
would they cry too,or must we always cry our own tears?
Would that I could stop or start, walls,
walls, the blackened brick of battered hearts,
where are the trumpets of Jericho when you need them?
Who needs words to fit? If only their meaning would fall
to hold cares blown away as smiles return,
floating on the breeze like gossamer from milkweed,
to waver endlessly, endlessly, endlessly,
so that what you get from life and stars scatter like gossamer,
recycling according to the world's dictation,
bringing my thoughts back to the Earth.
These words pass me by like missed opportunities
that are predestined to frustrate.
Pass by? Why? Why not speak? Speak?
Because I have been told to shut up too often
and I've found that wasting my words only turns me into a target,
getting blown away by piercing smiles,
but right now the tears overcome the smiles,
which sink like punctured buoys,
and the heart aches and aches,
and breaks and breaks,and keeps on breaking.
Absurdity is the bread of life,
and tears the wine to wash it down,
and the bullshit floats from right to left,
unless the bull is facing west,
fixed on dry chaffed grass scuttling in the breeze,
sniffing the traces of passing heifers and lush green grass,
he skirts circular electric barbed-wire orbits,
laboratory bred, instinct led still,
despite attempts at chemical perfection,
undaunted by technology, snorting his virility,
always an animal living his own logic,
a mobile oven that toasts the air,
after all, Valentine's Day comes just the same. Perhaps love?
Perhaps not, perhaps nothing! Always alone,
but still needing many hands to affirm brave postulations.
Too much logic makes us unreasonable animals.
Let the rain fall, curtains of silver
sweeping away the cobwebs of depression
like the tongues that lick windshields in carwashes,
you dig at my wounds and sluice off the moisture in my eyes.
What the hell, that is not all life, man!
Work, work, work, relate, intend, perform
tongues to hear, tongues to feel, and least desirable,
tongues to touch and taste it, and envelope,
stamped, sealed, and all so silly hands hand an alibi
that I'll buy if you're selling it cheap.
I'll take it wrapped and sealed with a kiss.
Fuck me now, pay me later?
A loan for a lonely girl?Change to spare, time plays havoc with the woeful soul,
sharing below the changing light
from the blazing fires of Hell
reflecting off the high up clouds,
a tiny young mind trying desperately
to fit all of creation into neat tidy piles,
expansively building rainbows from stone.
So this is what it is all about?
Are we nothing but pebbles, c
heap tokens to God worn between our worried fingers,
beads worn weary and limp,
traded for that old borrowed lay
whose release was worth a whole string
and not just one bead?
Wow, a bead! Let's make lots,
give lots to few and none to lots,
and flaunt your lowliness.
Wear your beads like rare gems,
gleaming stones, dense and impenetrable
just like your heart, which I would love to rent for a weekend.
Hemingway hated disco music,
spending all his gems for silence
that cannot help but break the crushing inevitability
of a dawning romantic serenade.
Why! Why! Why! Is that way cool!
The frightful silence of snow
is scattered in a powder of colliding static
that looses its electrons in an atomic bomb
that reverberates without any sound.
Crack the cosmic egg for a mushroom omelette,
damn the cholesterol, full speed ahead.
Got a girl who don't say boo,
she a damn good girl but she don't.
You are a simple soul, if that is all, you want, I want more!
Drink from this river of soul,
its full feeling resounding love.
I'm so hungry and disoriented and frightened,
but most of all it's the hunger for knowledge,
and lessons not yet learned from former loves and lives.
Sorry to interrupt but I just flew in from Montreal,
we've got a cattle-car of angry demonstrators who are just dieing,
and the opposite of radioactive is radiolazy,
as a strutting macho from Montreal
strolls through with a mask of diamond drills,
totally misjudging all he meets and sees,
discordant sounds in a discordant space
slowly melt into harmony.
I see it now, this could be Texas, red hot;
Hot can be cool if it's not too hot,
yes and cool can be hot, yeah!
A spark ends an iceberg
in a light fire of the diamond jewel.
I was going to be negative
but I'm too discombooberated, how 'bout you?
But when you follow the arcs of the flight of the butterfly,
will you still feel its beauty in your descent over the precipice?
Justly but not lustily, can you all hear my sacred banana
as it strolls through the bar in blindness,
well lit, but not illuminating?
I want nothing except ecstasy;
only I can create ecstasy for me.
Too heavy for me, but I see the light across the room, give it to me.
Blitz bloom blah! Hurray and amen for fuck sakes,
this is a monster crawling up your leg
on its way to a damp holiday,
ever seeking, never minding, never finding,
so lets go canoodling on them waves over there
and forget about that scary stuff for a while.
You are too high up! Come down to earth man!
These legs I love are sensitive to this crawling stimulus
as these crawling whisker
stickle their way up my arougenous zone
where there is no parking from nine to five
and tickets make it hard to be alive.
I have no time but can alway...
Let me start again.
But life is a dome of many coloured arcs
in the face of Christmas,
blue mornings escape the clutches of night to fall weeping
into indigo and magenta and citron and rust,
and black and gray are not colours.
Rainbow promise stands firmly in these eyes of experience,
and with the world as it is, is such lyric even possible? Wow!
Today I can not feel too sorry for myself,
however I have trouble deciding where I end and you begin,
and then it starts to snow again,
and sound is eaten, silken whispers rustling over my skin,
and there it all rests,
except to turn on its axis,
whirling without thought or awareness or imagination,
slicing through the night, leaving those who wanted to be alone.
Everything is alive in the universe, I'm told,
and I believe it, on and on and on and on
to sow and so and sow and so, to go and satay,
recall disproportionate realizations and expectations.
The phone rings: so what are you doing for love and romance?
How 'bout a hearty lunch leading to the honeybee dance?
Oh Honey, they all say that at first before the revolution;
apres noi, le deluge. Apres tonight,
what becomes of the spiritual towers in our hearts?
I just heard the news: Howl, howl, howl, this mankind!
This handshake is strong, and feelings somehow not quite wrong,
and leaves a bit of something sticky in my hands.
List of emotional poisons:
#1. Ham and eggs with estrogen;
Sly words from thoughtless erstwhile friends
who quickly abandon you at the first sign of intolerable passive smoke.
Poison others, please butt out.
I guess the music will do for now,
too much overwhelms this being,
betrayal is the precursor to hurricanes,
warm gusts of pain longing for something not here at this time,
but testimonial testicles draped over the map of my mind torture the limousine,
cold, too fast, limbering up, relaxing, avoiding collisions, opening.
#2. Unfocused fungus, pugilist pubes,
waves of despair only fatal if we forget how to swim.
It's okay if you can float in a tidal wave of hope.
No comment is also a comment.
Oh to be in tune with the being, resonating resonance,
inwardly ringing, outwardly filling other people's problems,
other people's solutions. What about me?
The unique snowflake misses my tongue,
solving nothing with its dissolving.
Come on now, pile high the fire of life, words and plummeting
as I gaze blankly at the picture frame hanging,
hanging mirror images only of masks,
feeble, disguising facades carved from diamonds,
cold, hard and unwelcoming,
hands, faces, touching parts, pieces of me,
harder, harder, erase the spell from your heart
and let it beat in perfect freedom.
Alas, a jesters movements circle amongst one's amusement,
immature, afraid to look,
but unable to leave your traditions,
customs and preconceptions at the door.
Sit right down, take your shoes off,
don't mind the smell, take a load off,
get a life and when you do remember
in life as in a game of chance,
make sure you tell people what to do
and how to do it,because that is the way,yeah right,
otherwise walk straight, head down, hands clenched.
Tears waltz on the face of ignorance,
twisted in a grimace of pleasurable pain
to a discordant melody burying itself in concrete suns.
Riffing is laughter with an instrumental,
breaks my chops in video scream rattles,
jagged light screening all emotion in a major shake-up,
hi-tech windows shatter like glass silence
and photonic slivers invade our eyes,
pools of still candour awaiting the end of the world
like waiting for a cheeseburger.
Cut not a stem in which sweet milk flow full,
tipping thy yellow grace to the wind.
Break the mold, sing the song,
I lay on the bed like a flatland river
waiting for a cheeseburger
on a night like crystal, shattering in its silence,
which sucks both courage and breath away
and gives food for thought and wonder
in its facets of rainbow vacuums,
but who wants to think ? Your feelings, give!
And until I finally stop thinking I will dream dawn-translucent,
seeing the mists clearly,
but never beyond the cold gravity of sensibility
which gives me direction as a compass of my heart,
though a six-pack and a mickie of rum do just as well,
and I say, "Goodbye..Goodbye!"
P.S... From the ranges of the Americas
descend the ravenous eagles
on the magical Christmas venison,
but live in the present, not X-mas past,
and still the itch for a drink somewhere else comes to the fore.
O! But to the drunk; Oh!
The drunkard's abandoned bottle used as a candle-holder,
never containing a message so far from the sea.
The sea,the sea's distance and a burnt out light.
My only home is that pale slip of blue,
frothy,eloquent and, speaking of moments past,
forgotten? What is remembered? Singing at all times,even if it is a growl,
but beware of memories and jagged pieces of glass.
They stick in your heart and are a pain in the ass,
a prism of pain through your gluteus-max,
I put my ear down on your needle tracks,
an ache of many colours wrapped me round
to illuminate my cortex and hide the cavernous soul.
Ah, the soul, seduced and lost,
feeding itself, buried in colours and forms of good health,
but that cavernous moan of broken breath
and burrowed frowns which was left in your leaving,
the groaning cavern hollow with departure,
I couldn't stop probing it like a tongue drawn to a tooth with a cavity.
I think this is a beer-line. Wow!
Or maybe its a Holstein cow,
but perhaps just acute queuing up for the unknown,
or yet the Great Divide,
but still, it's got not a knock on the line,
still stuffed up, so divide the insides,
stuffed heavy, you gluttonous fools,
the tissues swollen, pink and liquious,
taken in and folded over by the sex,
dried and left but a dusted remembrance,
a vibrant salted ridge, luminous, disappearing,
clinging to the white finger-nailed prayer,
pathetic and desperate.
Why all that whining about love?
Because, because swords need their sheaths
and sheaths need their swords,
and policy premiums all puffed and pointy
take it away sweet to deliver them a bouncing baby check.
because cheques rarely come home to roost unless they bounce.
The empty pocket looms and sneaks to pounce,
so bring on the joy from the depths of the planet
until it fizzles and spits out of orbit,
bubbling up and bursting in pain and ecstasy,
sometimes travelling in concentric circles,
sometimes in eccentric circles
as the heavenly spheres turn
and align to unlock the meaning.
Spherical coins in fountains of burning hydrogen,
currency of the realm, melting away.
Save your dollars, they can be used to stoke cooking fire,
fire that heats, fire that burns
men with no heart and no time to hear
(Ooh la la!Is that poetry too real!)
and women with no heart and no ears to hear,
or mouths to sing, whisper, pray, scold
or lie and twist in skin and air until it's no longer necessary,
find a pocket of air to suck and suck
until you are full of a vacuum of sound and shiny light.
Inhale the Moon too, silver sliver crescent
transferred from sky to ear and heaving heart-drum.
Num_ism_at_ists all in a row,
burning the objects of their sorrow,
burning my skin with scorching airs
while I eat the fire of your head
and scrape the charred cells from my tongue.
I shall keep the ashes from our fire
on the mantelpiece of my heart.
I want to collapse, but I know if I go down
there is no getting back up.
Oh baby, oh baby, its a wild world,
swingle the dingle-ball, ooh wee ooh ah!
Shadows on the carpet and oil spills,
fire and war and war and fire;
cold and cold and cold money burning a pocket in your hole.
A middling medium, artificial in the extreme,
a puppet dancing on a string
with no strings attached,
laughing mindless as it jerks and sways.
It's so hot! I think I'm melting! Oh no! Help! Help! No!
Melt into the mind of the unanswerable
and you might have to learn to read,
smoke, drink, put on airs or sing a song of all that's past.
Why and where are not important.
Our thoughts, minds, souls and hearts beat alone,
never quite achieving, only coasting,
dwelling, losing and dying to start it all again,
washed by the flame of the pyre
as long as it still burns for you and not for fire.
Hell-fire or celestial sun-lit wonder-confection?
Letters of spaghetti, which I still can't read cause I'm illiterate,
return, complete the cycle and start again,
just keep on doing it until they get it right.
Don't cry my love, my sweet.
Confusion will soon pass and you will sit with new awareness
from the bleeding soul of a badly written fortune-cookie.
Masturbating metal tenderize the world made flesh,
made everbuzz to the max of all contributory mementos,
and yet blinded by focus,
hungry for lasagna,
angry at the cheese,
white, bland and innocent,
I wonder what happens to these poems.
Where do they go when they  have gone?
Just shout your heart out of your poem,
for you are never truly gone
since your verse is your song.
It just runs around without its head,
eyes rolling and mouth gasping,
like a fish dancing delicious in my hand,
scaling the heights of death,
circadian synchromass, differential mechanics
and eighteen basic equilibrating developments.
If a little bit of compassion grows behind the eyes, be grateful.
I put down my piece of watermelon with the toothpick stuck in it
and it drips, pink and playful. We are thankful for our feeding.
It feeds our egos and we grow outward
from inward sustenance. Watermelon is our truth.
Some of our nonsense, like life itself, is the wisest we can attain.
Down on the dock I saw a spider feeding on watermelons.
His head was a seed filled with all possibilities: a flower, a tree, a man.
Man!!! Weak and pitiful thing, skin, a translucent pink
like the carcass of the watermelon and filled with seed
bigger than the breadbox of heaven
and rounder than the red neck of ribald Roger.
No-Teeth Letitia is on tap for two, tap for two.
From outside a woman yells responses.
There is poetry on heads fishing the air like casting in rivers
and fishing for rivers of head yet uncast.
Should've gone and should've found out while I still had a little time,
time to go fishing for the Nazis
and the watermelon design on a tablecloth,
unfocused, yet an omen of memory.
But I remember the glorious watermelon,
that wonderful food of my fantasy,
pink, so pink, like the flesh I desire.
The spider pulled his head from watermelon red meat,
and said plainly to me, "At life's banquet don't eat spam."
Spam coloured flecks on the carpet
worn thin by our tapping feet,
tapping out of time, out of time, out of time,
the random heartbeat of chaos
metered by a metronome mercilessly.
Just don't crash like Icarus tonight.
Now I got a woman, she teaches me mortality.
"Put on your helmet ", she says,
"Come back to me. "In hot summer night pounding the pavement
as the heat of the night infuses my bike,
I'm gradually getting drunker
and foaming, foaming white waves.
I lied. It wasn't hot, just night.
The bubbles confused me. They fooled me.
Here we go, poetry in cyberspace!
No way around it, hang onto your hats! Hang onto your pens!
Bullshit is getting better, quack, quack.
The love you look at is always the love you don't see until it passes you by.
The water is always coldest before the first plunge.
Hang onto your bathing suit.
You know, the bathing suit your grandmother gave you,
the one with the avocados and little purple music notes.
Put on your space helmet baby
and get ready for fall.
Leave off all that you're doing,
you just might grow tall
in the breeze, then you're gone,
out and lost your baseball down the sewer again.
Oust add last your lassi all dew the sewer ajar.
Ah yes, impudent and yet luquiscently musical, insical.
My problem, my poetry's problem,
I assume people are dead to the world.
I read the previous lines and think
how impudent it was for John and Adeena
to ignore the rhyming scheme of the first stanza.
So it seems that Siskel and Ebert were right,
two thumbs in the same stanza
are worth all the space-helmets on Bloor street.
Is that all that poetry is, here and now? Where's here?
Struggling poets wrestling with the void,
the spaces between the characters and the words
fall through the cracks in my breathing apparatus.
I hope the oxygen will last until I reach the surface.
Arnature upright, outasight lusty old woman with attitude,
and then Adeena and Nancy (Primadonnas)
did put on a skit, had a drink of coffee-water
and passed it off as wit. A pantomime of passé rude,
and with a drink, well, something lewd,
my drunkenness, but you knew this already.
O goody, goody! Here we go again, poetry!
Sing a song for John Bonham.
Don't you wish he was dead?
Singing a silly sanguine song, sadly,
I wear butterflies and flowers
beneath a coat of stars
caught in a spider's web
and sit in this noisy bar
listening to the drunks in the next room.
"Bonham was not a bonhomme",
said his flaunty Auntie,
"But a bone and a ham"
Roy Orbison or bison?
Only the lonely home on the range,
it can all be ranged, there's nothing really left to say
without a helium voice. Burst balloons, what a gas!
So I can write a few lines and you can write a few lines.
It has been fun. I'd like to do it all the time,
but defining it means putting words
to feelings that change as quickly as our thoughts
so as to appear as watery reversals,
mercurial swings from extreme to extreme.
I saw big Buddha in blue with white pearl buttons, maximum!
What did you see my blue-eyed child?
It seems the call will be for infinity
but we don't really pay it much mind.
Kaleidoscopic thoughts tumble through my mind
which struggles to lift your arms like the branches of a tree
towards a man with an electric duck
aimed at the semi-visible nose that is suspended in the street.
This is normal to those who live in the colour-quake,
shaped and shaken by shades and shadows
into hues of blue, our forms tattooed,
life isn't real until it's video-recorded,
then we can uncross into our past below
and fall flying, flying into the blue,
maybe fly on with poetry and music
into this other dimension where
glory is master and time is unmeasured.
This one used to sing in bunkhouses,
Labatts and acid all night.
Plug me in, take me home, and listen along.
Will you ask me to play off into a brand new morning?
To gas and stretch, stretch and gas
a needle-thin geyser-gush from here to God,
spraying back, spat out as acid rain,
carrying their tails behind them,
the sons of Adam, God's problem children of Eve,
destruction, chaos and loss.
We find ourselves in darkened glory,
we feel ourselves up and down,
we feel ourselves round and round,
running to explode like an atomic child.
It long ago began and someday will end,
hope, someday will have a friend,
blink and it's gone, for remember,
sometimes shit happens and sometimes it flies
into the great extreme, ecstatic duck-blind
shatters the composure of hunters.
Will the music of love caress the soul of my person?
Will the music of space-invasion compose the hunters?
Do hunters actually eat the meat,
or do they just laugh and chuckle
at the dormant deer-head staring into eternity?
Next time breakfast rears its ugly head,
remember we all have both in and out suggestions.
Public enemy number scum lives for his dreams,
whatever they are, the hunter may be hunted,
the idiot may be stupid, the cop may be honest
and the priest may be celibate.
Take eternity without the priest on your own man.
We're all too butchered up with people telling us how to live,
and speaking of shit, I am a man of taste,
a lover of fine poetry and leather jackets
and a failed pimp with the laziest whore in the world
who has two hobbies: heroin and bingo, in that order.
What is there to dig? We are here now.
The challenge is to be. I've seen your penis, you're only man,
and yet one who knows me too well,
or not well enough at all.
Don't be mad at me because of my thoughtlessness
or I will lose my way in the alley
and forget whether I was meant to be
an angel of light or an angel of darkness.
If my back is against the wall in the alleyway, where do I stand?
Do I fall, fall, fall down into the pits which are bottomless?
In Hell there is no welfare,
no money either you fucking do-gooders.
Give, give Jack the grace to jump the candlestick I don't see.
In one melding of this poem, I know it is the melding.
I suppose everything in life is poetry, a miracle,
so why say more, except why not add to the miracle?
Ever notice the empty bottles make the most noise?
They rise above my pulse and push the empty voices aside
who fables freed through portals plain in times of ancient Nordic dread.
But why would I want a virgin?
I'm 21 on the verge of a floral backdrop.
The womanizers usually do,I think.
My tomato patch is very honest. It exists without arrogance.
I sewed it with passion on my underpants.
Seeds , juice, and ripe, round redness.
Tomatoes ripe drip red cream blood
and stain the Earth with the juice of martyrs.
I praise the generous, glacier scraped Earth
and the ghosts of its creatures past.
She stepped on me like a grade "c" tomato,
but that was then and this is now.
We must move on to enjoy the rest.
We must recognize the homeless
and help them to like, give up being on Welfare,
become 60% virgin and 40% whore.
The hand came from nowhere and smashed me to the ground!
My own voice rang in my bursting ears!
My tomato patch is honest, it exists without arrogance,
but I feel shamed by their blood-redness.
It's not my favourite perhaps,
so this is not my Eve-apple.
(I hope I recognize what I wrote next week).
Tomatoes are to eat, sex is sex,
love is love and poetic licence,
red is red and blue is blue,
for some reason we never criticize.
Group poems are chaos! I love chaos!
Ripe, red, juicy chaos
melts in your mouth and in your pants,
the fires in either oven sparked by our glands,
from dark lands and fuelled by another's hands,
harness, bit and blinders are the three heads
of the same beast called Democracy,
tellingly cast over a hot-cross-bun
of omnivorous ostrich eggs
that have hatched hungry, hopeful monsters.
Extreme expression over such chaos is my arm-band.
Two more voices to the trigger-tongued budgerigar,
but we can't take care of them,
because if we do you will never know your sins.
Control your fucking lies!
Scum and sleeze is the yellow pages
and the faded photographs of the frame,
ladies of secrecy, private smiles and fluttering eyelids.
Come hither, get yonder, draw nearer,
please leave with my tongue in your hands,
keep your eyes on it, take it somewhere.
The wrapper says,"Do not eat"
You can hide from almost anything
except your body when your cells turn on you.
Be grateful you can breath, walk and fuck
with clean air, good health, a lover,
and blind eyes that gift you
with the ability to totally ignore Reality.
It's just bodies scraping each other raw, but it's all I know.
Raw flesh devoured by creepy crawly silent maggots,
all a stain to write over tear drops,
masochistic art in empty beautiful women,
inaccessible unless there's more time
to show I am reflective. Am I seen?
I am reflective when viewed in accordance to your filter screen.
There is power in ownership. Heaven is here now,so why wait?
Oh so dreamy and high to live in such a way,
so full of love and grace, my whores are all Italian and know their place.
Found out the staccato beat of iron on steel walls
behind the walls, where strangely,
even in the suffocating, ultra- toxic,
never-ending plume of chimney-smoke there is wild beauty.
Seems like a poet's block. Lets have music.
"I don't understand this", said the Jabberwocky,
then Lewis Carrol explained it
and its insolent truth angered me.
Beauty, diamonds, tar, fire, it's as if I'm dead
and becoming part of some enemy's barbed wire fence.
Light my smoke,anyway.
Convoluted is this blood shared on a page.
Look beneath the ink. Long shores of disaster
wait endlessly for the saviour with an open-fisted slap.
Every morning I wake with a resurrection,
Lazarus as priapas, no rest for the weary,
void vacancy in empty arms.
You leave me alone but I am not blind.
Criss-crossed by empty highways,
dotted by the swagmen of Grogtown forgetfulness,
peopled with rootless grass and grassless routes,
I like the way she walks, her breathy speech
and the things she does with cement and iron on the beach.
Looking for that saviour and asking,
seeking, waiting for affirmation,
always seeking outward for the mystery within.
Here comes music! Enough of poetry!
Sing a song for the killer Larries: Welk and Olivier!
Let poetry use the body of man to make an angel of mud,
a Golem by any other name would be as muddy,
then use chicken soup to make a body of man.
O body of Man, can you spend the now with me?
O body of woman that might entrance me, not for altogether long,
but when you leave, wean me slowly.
Let me learn to live alone again with minimal trauma,
or stick if you have guts of your own
and the guts you tore from my belly
and pushed to my feet, throwing up my emotions.
For God's sake wipe the toilet-seat when you're done!
No one wants to see your emotions floating in yellow history,
revealing what you think you know about people who,
if they existed in your time you would probably ignore.
Today, I think I thought, although I can't be entirely certain,
but that is what history's about: thinking, analyzing and learning.
But then stop, think, history is only someone else's thought about,
picture it, Brooklyn, New York, 1957,
all that toughness and arrogance rolled into one big matzo ball.
And now they are talking about food! Poetry?
The only seven words that the censors will never let us say,
":Because", "leaving", "it", "in",  "might" , "spoil" and " it" again.
I've thrown my third sheet to the wind
as I burst forth, heading pell-mell to hell.
It was a great fall, but Pluto caught me and said,
"In the land of the dead leaving it in might spoil what?
Certainly not that."  Just hold it a minute.
That holds an eternity of unspoken words,
a moment of hesitation that broke the spell.
Hey! Bring on the music or poetry, but real stuff.
Come on, don't let the thought spoil.
It might seem poetic and it might earn you "in-out,in-out",
but get it over with. Out, get out of the groove,
now fuck me with no rhythm at all,
forget Catholicism, at least we can rhyme.
Who is talking about Italians?
Jews do a lot of fucking epeshes with other oiyims, so horny mom's Mia?
See Brian, see Brian pied-piper rats to Ottawa.
See Brian destroy...
Poomph! I've got writer's block,
so I guess I won't write anything.
Is it right that writing is a rite of release
to uncover the hidden wisdom not imagined
in the daily questions that always stagger
toward truth of one kind or another?
But where is the market for a good lie these days?
Tell me a lie there is no truth to
that this shall be lie,lie lie.
They may all be, yet behind them all lies truth,
a mask which appears frontal.
Therefore is movement possible?
Leaves fall from the trees while the wind blows sweet songs,
but is it a fan or a vacuum cleaner?
How come blowing requires suction?
Hell, the sweetness is a poison,
the poison hidden behind love.
What is love? Perhaps it is hereafter after all.
Permanence prevails in absence, never here,
only a rumour, always somewhere else.
I wish you'd notice when I'm not there,
not simply noticing what I have not done.
Greet me with "Believe me, wait, be, leave me.
Are we really as leaves on the trees in autumn,
or in April, the cruel month?
April is lovely,but I love October.
Perhaps they are both beginnings.
Sometimes when I speak,
I don't recognize this strange voice,
and sometimes when you speak I'd swear it was my voice.
Magic mirror, yes the words reflect back,
sometimes with a strong, sharp, sting.
Mirror, mirror, which is a sharp sting if you break it,
suck this and you'll live forever, I promise.
But who wants to live forever then?
It is November 8, almost November 11,
I never know what to say.
Wait a minute! Paul is reading
and I'm listening. No drugs for inspiration,
no m.s.g junk-food for the muse.
Kentucky-fried crack-head over-binge,
jump back and light the fuse.
The Truth shall make you free?
Yes, if the truth has something to do with eroticism
stop shrinking my dick with your lies.
It's difficult to love someone you can't trust
and juggling two Italian women isn't easy.
Blow-job, blow-hard, you phony fuckin' bingo playin' ice-bitch,
you make me come so good.
What can I say, I can't write off of Paul.
That's why I wanted to write first, Christian,
and why I would write last while listening to the song
and the measure of each emotion.
So the artist creates exposure for you?
All of us have fractured souls and all are exposed.
The artist creates that which is artificial,
not to say it is fake, but what is the fear?
To many it's a darkness, easily cured by a light.
Did I take my pill? I don't know.
"Fuck it", I say to myself as I slip deeply into sleep.
Wake up! Wake up you fucking morons!
Wake up you idiots! If I turn inward origins
like a voice in a jar of inescapable wanting
this is certainly insane in all its confusion.
I've got a feeling heille! C'quoi ca?
Oh sorry, wrong language.
In this ever increasing entropy
mais ce la fait rien, mon cheri,
we create our own purpose.
Life is horrible but always fascinating.
I wouldn't change it for the world,
but I could use a vacation,
a trip away from stress and pressure.
I've never been to bliss or thrill,
but passed through content once or dib.
W e could still mold plastic bric-a-brac.
Leaven-worth! Leaving the bread of life
with a breath of song and awakening the passion,
the reality that I hate men
because they can just get up there and "be".
Reach up, reach up all good people,
for the higher we reach, the greater the risk.
A bared and barren heart for beating
and bleeding on other people's memories,
therefore I bow my heart when dew is dropping sleep
until God burns time before the un-labouring stars and you.
Those Stars, as you fall from that blackened sky
into these eyes' vision-less experiences of rain,
and your staring existences seem to fade
till you are a rogue comet  streaking across my darkened skies
and leaving a trail of fire on a rugged floor
so that illusive images of smoke may lace the ceiling.
This took forever to get here and I'd take the world over
but what the Hell can you complain about?
This is mere reality, so if you can't bear to exist without,
then exist within, close-up, step.
I want to meet the woman who hates the acceptance of here,
because our dreams are exhausted here, and blown all to Hell.
There's nothing in the rivers where the fuels flow.
This was a great night. Everything flowed the way it was supposed to.
There's nothing left to fuck up, so kick- start that mother,
money, money, money, money, money, money, money, money, money, money,
buried in the banks of Cash Creek.Gold, silver, nickel, copper, hard, cold and inaccessible.
The rich, the poor, the free, the slave,
happily they sang together the song of true commerce,
which is the spending of love as it increases in value.
It's refreshing to be broke because it gives me some purpose.
What purpose? What can be done without money? Can you travel without it?
Bingo is the place the lovelorn go to die,
but I don't play bingo so I don't die.
My life is bingo, hanging on the edge,
waiting for my call. Oh, next game,
"Straight bingo will now be played", and adrenaline pulsates.
Arrr choo crazzy maaan? Make up you fuckin' mind
about which tit you vant to suck on!
Zen gardener? There's a poet reading.
He's talking well again and I'm thinking
that his voice rings in my chest like a bell,
that his voice echoes in my lungs
and beats in my heart.
He's talking and I'm thinking,
"How does he do it?
What is it about these words of the night,
the night that lives alone?
Nobody will be left, unless of course they are left for dead,
because the dead live in the hole
into the other side of existence beyond the loneliness.
But nothing Barzulle could have anticipated,
despite her magnified sense of herself
as the last living twentieth century crone
and the mentor to all mankind, ha ha ha.
I was feeling like a grey, warm dishrag
that needed some bleach,
but I repeat, life may be horrible sometimes but always fascinating.
Words of the night, I'm intrigued to romanticize it,
to escape the boredom of life lived in a small-picture-tumble-vision
that twists and blends rainbow to gray,which can be seen as silver, given the right perspective.
But what is perspective? Everyone describes it differently.
To some, "beauty" is what it is,
and "ugly" is as if its always been there.
The snow drifts high at Half-Moon Bay
while the candles illuminate self-destruction as control
and self-realization as corruption.
To swim in this miasma of madness!
How can guilt be covered so in the lingerie of life?!
Lord tunderin' Jeezuz bye, dere's still no cod in da ocean!
The message? "Say 'No'".
Maybe he does. Why not?
I'll be nice for Christmas too, sure, yeah,
but I want world peace
and an atomic dildo up yer ass with a ton of gas
and if it's a choice between the dildo,
I'm hallucinating. Sure, I did this once before but it isn't deja vu.
May your first child be a masculine child
even if its a girl, so it can live without fear,
the fear of holding itself in its hand, in a glove.
It's less personal that way,
a stranger penetration than the forceps of death.
How close is love? How far is friendship?
In that interim between life and death,
cares and worries clutter the menu.
As Voltaire said, "Let us cultivate our gardens.",
or was it, "Has anybody heard of gardens growing in the winter?"
But what do gardens have to do with Christmas
roses blooming in the snow? Blood and thorns?
The temperature drops,
blood crystallizes in the hearts of the insane,
and governments flatulate diseased oppression for the sleeping masses,
so there's no need to ask "Who cut the cheese?"
Aged and ripe at morning or night,
round and yellow as the waxing sun rising as promised
and returning on the equinox to proclaim renewal.
You are cruisin' for a bruisin'
in a multi-cultural-politically correct way!
There's no inspiration after the holidays?
What can you expect?
The perspiration of a culture's work,
diversity crushed under a dollar,
the way my starving children will weep
over your spoilt banquet when the table turns silent,
the angel coming down to save us
with an eye shutting for every mortal,
the perspiration of a poet's work,
and the nerve cells scattered as Karl Marx says,
"Groucho, Harpo and Zeppo,
may you always be my brothers
in the sweet, proletarian after-life.
Not to harp on the Marx's, but what about Gummo?
The youth get broken, the old get wet,
and both hide behind a crystal.
It's all just too fucking deep for me.
The B.S. is a P.H.D. drowning in a sea of intellectual pretention
so I've no more sympathy for you today.
Are you fucking looking at me,
or the third man to the left of the girl in black?
Ah, the girl in black! So beautiful, so beautiful, so innocent,
yet all black cat-dawn-eagle Rastafarian fashion model
on a runway of Blue Mountain sod.A feline runaway living outside,
free, but cold and hungry,like she was in the first place.
I like the way that someday the world will stone you,Joe.
You're everywhere and you understand my hate, so get back!
Everybody's telling you to get back!
I'd rather fall flat on my fucking face
in wet cow shit with my mouth open
and be bare as a skinned leopard
in the rapid cold winds of winter's blizzards,
than to be here, releasing a display of my emotions! I'm afraid!
But do you really, really want to see my naked truth,
with its rolls of fat bursting out over the corsets of your description
and escaping your song of consistency?
The laziest whore of them all lies on her back and takes it,
but a good whore always satisfies a little too quickly
and her life will never last, rarely if ever last,
after the fantasy is aborted by the cold arm of knife- edge reality,
which seeks insemination in the treasure-box of vague, chaotic memory.
The loonie left is doing it with his left,
despite the fact that his potential lies in his right,
so I'm packing my Lego and going to live with the groundhogs
where there's a whole in one and one in the hole.
Ah, the hole between that whore's legs!
Come home with me baby,
but be prepared to be awake when the sun comes up.
A good customer always comes too fast and doesn't last.
They're best gone limp, despite the treachery of conceit.
Peter ate too much. His glass of water had a straw in it.
He let it go and kissed you,
then waited for response in twists of hope and fear.
The soft brush of velvet, electric and unsettling,
reverberated in a percussive heartbeat
that struggled to escape its ecstatic limits.
I hurl at the thought of his nausea of formality!
Well, well, it happens and then it happens again,
but a whore never kisses and I'm no fucking "trick".
John Average is an asshole.
Go for everything, well, some things you'd better not,
besides you are unique. You want to choose don't you?
"Burning! I am burning up!", the man said as he passed me,
though he spoke to no one.
Skinny with intensity and old pain,
the man passed through his own crowd
while the ashes fell of the bodies marching into the chasm,
enormous sausages groaned in the mist,
and all the women walked with their buns twitching,
unglued and soured with mustard,
to be eaten with relish.
Starvation disguised as apathy rose to the surface,
thus piercing the mask.
There's an Exxon refinery on the road to Venice.
So many, so few, no place to go to get sucked of,
but who wants to get socked off?
It's getting boring now,
lets change the tune to free-range poultry
instead of poetry with its beads of memories
and its basted vowels from an incapable language,
its all a waste of energy!
Self importance and selfless suffering
both add up to "the Poet"
who even begins to bore his own tortured soul,
but he's too far too shackled
to be alone with his Camel filter
because its so much easier
than trying to force it through the eye of a needle
and so much harder
than stones in an angel's shoe.
But courage is the essence
of waiting ever just to be born
and in time he will pass
the crossroads he is stranded at.
But what are the crossroads
and where does the choice come from?
Death.
So don't fuck with me,
come with me or I'll come on you!
Come along,
does that fantasy see climax in your dreams?
There is a worm in the machinery
so I think you better check on it.
We try to shake the cream,
but we curdle the milk inside of our heads.
Our cells are working on commission,
but inhibited by division,
their dimensions unrestrained,
their facets and elements uncontained,
they're lost between realities
and looking for a home.
They can live on the street.
Don't look at me, I'm not gonna sink the fleet.
Our bills are norking banbard,
so shake it up,do, is it really Valentine's Day?
My colours are true, for I do not lie,
a dream is all it is,
but can you really say we can get along together?
The quality of the space really sucks!
Is this the best of the worst or the heart of the liverwurst,
an edible organ, not to be played with or on.
The heart tastes best of all bittersweet,
with nausea permeating fears of getting laid.
But even though we fear getting laid,
we like to get high on acid.
Another trip, what can I say? And best of all, I'm in control.
Control this Daddyo! Dig, it might get better.
Control? Just lose yourself in this wave of mutilated words.
Isn't that what poets do anyway?
After all, "Orgy" is the word,
but the touch is to be so convincing in your performance that no one knows,
absolutely I say, aespicably so,
that the world is full of fakers and I am one.
One time I faked orgasm and no one cared.
Once more I faked,
and both an orgasm and the Pinkerton Collection Agency
broke into my flat to repossess my entire Donna Reed video collection
which makes Madonna look like a virgin,and yet once again we see darkness shadowing the light
and wonder if that's a bunch of poo.
Boop-dee-doop-dee-doo.
I really don't need ya,but Madonna has got Donna by the tits.
You can contest it back and forth,
but I think Donna could kick her in the ass so fast,
she wouldn't know I fucked Madonna a million times
and Donna Reed once, so go figure.
Come on, leave fuckin' Donna alone!
Lets face it, you're lonely!
How many time-zones are there in the Soviet Union
on the bongo of Dad, and to the beat of song?
Nice try, but Donna must be horny,
why not send her a box of chocolates?
Life is like a chocolate coated hand grenade,
as sweetly shattering as it is softly salivate,
soft as it melts in her mouth to make her hornier and hornier
until finally she's compelled to charge to the nearest groin
like a bull crashing through a china shop,
destroying her own facade of composure as a guardian.
He's anachronistic in her explosive flight to death
after a fucking blow-job in the creepy nightfall,
and as the archetype with its cock cocked caresses her cheek,
but chops off, "Profound!Profound! They are touching me!",
when it does this , I come in my pants, and then I have to change them.
But why change your pants if your mind needs awakening?
When you change your tune I'll be interested in giving you another listen,
so walk home and go to sleep,
because this experience is essential
to your changing sexual-time-moving-universe,
which is made from the body and blood of Gumby,
while the whole schlamozzle just keeps Pokeying along.
I'm the man who broke the bank at Monte Cristo
and if I've told you once, you've kept a promise,
(if you remember, so don't forget
that Mr Dressup's wife died in a car accident on Yonge street,
and all that time Jerome the  Giraffe
was making it with Rusty the Rooster.
Look up and dance in the sun!
Fucking bars are a drag, the smoke sucks,
people move on a beer tangent,
and I've never seen a bigger collection of insecure teeny-boppers
trying to live up to beer commercials,
especially when they've already had their brains removed
by the blood-sucking dog from Hell
who controls the word-song and hydrogen bombs.
What a drag man! I mean, like, dig you, a boor,
and I think a vegetable cream-seller
who lives off the avails of teeter-totters
and who loves getting high on pot, acid and broccoli.
You eat a lot with vegetables and carrots,
food for the body and soul.
"Ha,ha,ha", laughs luminously down the stream,
and while moonlight shimmers on the rippled water crashing on the bluffs,
Mari deposits his body on the shattered shore.
She doesn't think the lights are bright enough in the big city
so she jumps back in a framed window of bodies,
opening to the flat rainwater.
Light, a horizon, que sera sera,
a moment where the soul should stop, enjoy,
and want nothing but the time,
but if you've gone too far, you've crossed the line and you haven't thought.
Ugly revulsion, Kev's head is in the toilet and his apartment is to let.
Yo, Pat, you bet I'm ready to get into the poetry
of picking spring flowers of nineteen year old beauty,
then leaving, splitting, going and turning the page on another day and night.
He grabbed its corner with icicle fingers,
then coldly considering my growing chill,
he burned me with his lukewarm breath
that smelled of whisky, tobacco and wanting.
This is starting to look familiar,
though with different faces
and different names,
but it's supposed to be like that,
this storm of hellish, disfigured rays
that crash and reflect
in the heyday of your fantastic parade.
Yeah, it's supposed to be like that,
different yet familiar pages
of lukewarm breath
as my mind drifts through the stench
of fumes so thick
you could cut them faster than a New York minute.
From sex to sex and beyond sex,
might there lie something more?
Something to end the shivering in my finger?
Nothing.
But where is the worth of will when its shot full of shadows,
dark upon dark and black upon black,
the yawning mouth gapes open with promises of doom,
while the light at the end of that tunnel
turns out to be a train coming towards you?
Watch out you fucking moron!
Soup to nuts. Fuck without a condom, it feels better.
I'm bored, I'm bored, I'm bored!
My head has popped off and it's being stamped on
by intoxicated Elvis impersonators
reeling from an all-night game of hop-scotch,
cocaine, heroin, booze,angel-dust,
lsd, pot, mescaline and magic mushrooms.
Sometime we should all take a night off
and join the Elvis impersonators,
not where, but when, and it is now
that we bite the ancestral future donut,
while its deep-fried, sugared, jelly-filled
and illusory spun sugar castles melt.
I got no fuckin' brains and I love it like that.
I had a dream that I was jerking off
while my mother was lecturing me about food,
but I longed for a different kind of sustenance,
like the kind when two minds can meld in a time of hell.
I could find my dildo for you
and you could settle it for yourself
with a duel to the death of 10,000 sperms,
but that's impersonal violation by mechanical object
and my body seeks the human touch,
but I'd better stay safe and get a new Meccano set,
or the furthest, maybe lick my mother.
She always told me to dress like a gentleman when I visit a whore,
but does that mean I should dress like a whore when I visit a gentleman?
It's okay, there are no gentlemen in this poem,
but if there were, I'm sure that if art is the icing on the cake,
the bigger they bake it,the better.
Power, power, we've got so much power it's ridiculous,
so much power, it's just,
and gracefully unjustified.
Just about what I thought, almost, almost.
There is a song wading on the Moon
through a breath of tears.
Tear off the strips of fear,
just rip them off,
shove them down your greasy throat,
then get off with your private psychotropic vibrator instructions.
Time, time ago, I loved you mom.
What's for dinner this year?The casserole is in the microwave, like it or lump it.
Mmm, nobody makes lumpy cancer time-bomb casserole like mom,
with bitter herbs wrapped in smiles
poisoned by deadened interest in unintended wiles,
which is all really to say, essentially, cogently and matter of factly,
"Don't be so hard on your mother!"
She's so soft. I was with her last night.
My Mother's dead. She made me a sandwich with sardines.
Oh yeah, what happened to Donna Reed?
She was last seen singing lullabyes to the fish at the bottom of the sea.
My father married my mother to make a bad woman go good.
It didn't help ,'cause he was worse.
Yeah, she was so bad, do you want to know how bad she was?
How bad?
Bad enough to travel from London to Paris,
to Buenos Aires, all on the strength of a french-kiss.
No order out of this chaos, I hate you mom.
Every poet is a writer, even when he doesn't write,
but I'm a lover, not a writer.
I'm a poet,not a writer,
the sea doesn't scare my ass,
though well may my ass's extrusions scare the sea.
It's bigger than you and me,
and if I were a whale I'd beach myself to get out of the filth.
Why don't you beg to be truthful,you bastard?!
She looked good, very tasty,
though mind you, in a state of bliss everything is true,
especially when you're drunk.
Remember, I'm a poet, you're a feminist;
I can show it, you make love; I get it up, we get it on.
Get it off! Get off me! Dolphin sex.
Once you've had Flipper, you never go back.
When I die I want to go peacefully, like my grandfather,in his sleep,
and not screaming like the passengers in his car
who died from a leak of laughing gas ether,then ethereally floated up to a paradise of leaking screams
and floating nightmares and into the deep, red-faced Hall of Bardo,
on the light of ether and through lives of inspiration,
I tear away my crown and dawn this sword of intellect,
seduction, hookers, heroin , Bruck Goldstain and loving it.
He broke down the Muslim crown, did Brouque Goldstein. Down with tyranny!
Then Slice awoke from her dream of silly ether, silly crowns and silly swords
and she said to bind her, "runs sana in corporis sanis"
Bucky Goldstein, still kosher on the range, the Jewish cowboy
who spills the wine of life and passes the cup of brotherhood in the spirit.
And her starving spirit bent to lick the remnants from the floor,
more indulgence than she could handle,
but how much do you need,
ungrateful in your syrupy generosity,
saccharine, Sugar-twin
and all the cyclamates you want.
William Blake once said,
“I saw in a single grain of sand an epiphany”,
but how is it that you became "it"?
How is it that you can get away with wearing all I eat?
Holy Nutra-Sweet, edible oil products
and this skirt make me,
till “It” becomes a name to encumber the sitcom infamy,
so don’t give me that
or I’ll give you my name for en cucumber,
it sounds like “ Jabberwocky” you ungrateful encumbrance,
now quit your jabbering.
Jerry Springer had a show about people who masturbate on the Moon.
Janfeb maraprilmay June July augsept oct novdec 1-12-7,9,14,6,
If, haiku this thing that is kind of what we think,
or think thoughts, dreams and wish wishes,
another “wonderland” to shrink ideas into words
and to cut our dreams into syntax in dreams.
Word, lie still with “He lives rhyme”.
Yes, He lives. I just saw Elvis, honest.
He came out of McDonalds with a couple of double Whoppers.
The building is, but I’m not leaving Elvis.
He’s my hero who is nowhere and everywhere, or is he?
I love him anyway, like everything.
It's friendly indeed to have friends
and sometimes the angels come with the faces,
but I am not a jealous woman.
I have no need to be so and can give you your freedom.
At least I am generous in my submission
to dive and schist in the water
and to smother the aerial of my television
on a frosting rooftop with visionary icicles
suspended from various “Eves”.
How I wish to be wandering the frosty lands of home.
Home, wandering, wondering,”Where’s the remote?”.
You push my buttons and turn me on or off,
but off is only better when wandering a foreign land,
and sand running out is the best moment to catch the last gasp.
Bob, Wendo, Doog and Kilroy were all here
in the un-deflated spirited flesh,
but are soon to return to the soft,
blue, maggoty, anal cradle of home, never to return.
Sorry, it's the brown Asia of your eyes making me wander from the topic.
Top pick, please open my eyes,
I’ve been squeezing them tight-closed-tight for too long.
Travel on the interstate but remember
to accelerate and merge with oncoming traffic,
and bring on the music, at least it makes an agreeable sound,
or possibly no sound at all.
The Interstate is tricky, so be careful,
all women have to fuck me, it's the law.
Your pants are loose and chump change falls like pathetic vermin,
but the lottery tickets are selling
like hotcake smiles outside of Nirvana.
All women have fucked me and it wasn’t the law, it was just the way I am.
Then I wake up and wish that it had never been
a dream to sing for children till the wakers sleep
and run the long black tongues of their minds
brushing gently against the velvet dark of night.
It burped the small whale belch of stagnant krill, awash through staid towns.
How gross? But the world is gross
and whales have their own culture to look at.
To be gross is large.
It's to extend beyond the sire of expectation and discover what is.
Yes the world is grass
and whales have their own culture oo la la:
no four letter words.
Oh yah? Fuck you Dick!
Does Dick wear go-go boots?
Damn right he does, and Dick is here, now!
But what is here, and when is now,
or what is now, and when is here, or what is not.
But I’m not going to talk about my dick today,
though all the hookers can’t live
without a condom and the knowledge to use one.
Slip one on to slip through the orgasmic circle.
Then my dog said, “Shit! Why can’t I use a condom?”
If I had two dollars I’d buy a condom,
because men love women in spurts.
This mirror gleams a reflection of light,
sometimes as woman and sometimes as man,
but only as reflections in this mirror.
Men stand on corners asking “Can I eat you Ma’am?”,
then the cops come and there’s nothing more that’s needed,
though still needing to be said.
“Black sucking, right or flack”.
What the hell, this too is poetry,
though more of an ode to sucking cock or blowing air.
“Ode-ode-ode-old, ode-auden old”,
smash the fucking urn, damn Keats.
My whore is living under me and is celibate.
Then Christian read from an autobiographical list of events
and people were reminded of Christian’s tedious problems,
but everyone has problems and they are tedious all.
My problem is that all the hookers want me at the same time.
They fight over me in their search for the “stud”,
the nail, the burden of society.
I Hope they don’t fail,
as in the soft hubbub of the posh Sheraton lobby
I sit by the waterfall in the rich safeness of this sunny afternoon
and I am waiting.
Crime? Smashing! Breaking! Destroying!
When do we strike? Burn down the Sheraton!
Burn down the World!
Nice? How dare you assume I’m nice!
Don’t trust me! I’m just another Cock who wants in!
Aren’t you sick of all the graffiti everywhere,
like on washroom walls and here?
But graffiti never lies.
For instance, such classics as “This person sucks Cocks”,
or “You need to get the humour”.
You need to get their humour.
Get an Orgasm, ten minutes more, then a cigarette,
and I can laugh again.
Eruptions should be saved
until after the volcanic foreplay,the laving in lava and the breathing of sulfuric fumes
encompassed in the heat of a vagina
sucking home another death expelled into the womb.
Is it a birth or a humiliation?
We must do what we have to do,
but roast beast with a bit of honey mustard
is almost as good as a fuck.
My teat! My skull! Look! Its as big as a diamond! Look out! Nipple!
It still sounds like graffiti on the washroom walls.
How do I know that what I say today,
which I think is true, may not be false tomorrow?
All circumlocutions are beat-like in their circling motion
before the tin-plated clown who bested himself at lawn tennis.
I wake with my cock in my hand, still thinking
while my fingers are glossed with life’s earthy glue.
Oh no! Holy Shit! I’m coming up! Oh! Fuck!
I’m horny and I’m wet all over! Water sports!
Yet, although I sometimes think these things
I will deny my erection in the face of constant rejection,
where I’m left to live without the food your menu offers me:
an enticing presentation, but I can’t afford the board
and you always raise the fare
because a junkie gigolo fucked you over and over again.
I feel like a pirate, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”
A baboon has a purple and rainbow ass.
Leave it said, I feel better.
The last note of injury was when the seating in the stadium electrified my ass
and bit my ankle as I hurried past, running, not to leave,
but just to hope this pen has a hair on it.
A fucking hair on it! I wonder if it could be a pubic hair.
Then one of the few Elders of Zion began, in secret to question the day.
Are we cold or do we only pretend to understand this:
this what I am not part of; this poetic group where I can’t smoke ,
where no one is drinking, and where I can’t think of a bloody thing, but its fun.
I don’t understand this, or do I understand this?
No, on reflection I see I don’t understand this.
I’ll read it again. No, I don’t understand this, but that’s okay.
I don’t need to understand this, I just need to be heard,
or even better, I just need to think of it as a place
where people meet to get something off their chests,
yes I do, but this has been a wild and crazy night and anything could happen.
The Captain lived with grace but did like all the rest
because he was unable to integrate,
so I think I’ll just get myself another beer, that first one was bloody good.
Life is not a dream. It is a way to try and avoid a murder scheme,
and if life is not a dream then it is reality,
and reality is grounds for insanity, which is a blunt reminder of dream’s reality.
So I think I’ll go cash in my chips
‘cause there’s damn little gravy
to imitate the succour we desire:
that thick, heady flavour
filling my waiting belly
and impregnating me,
for I am the sexual hoodlum
‘cause all artists must suffer.
“ Sick, sick, sick, blah, blah, blah”-
even this is poetry, but not really.
Please try! Repeal me!
Hear the blunt, humourous, unrelenting emotions,
then run terribly naked with exposed grey matter.
Cero, uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinque, seis,
sete,ocho, nowe, diey little Spanish poets.
The treasure was bare and the eunuchs
de-balled Montezuma’s revenge.
They all loved it.
Loved, I love your nakedness,
but I hate the way you hide behind your deceptive facade.
You’re always veiled but you look pretty.
Who you callin’ “pretty” you fuckin’ moron?
We’re fuckin’ poets,
and I’ll shit in my underwear because of ya, you wow-wow workin’ man.
Oh yeah, you’re deceptive.
It seems everything starts as poetry here,
and since we as critics do not learn to empathize,
my ideal woman has a broken gramophone,
large breasts, sunken cheeks and is very sophisticated.
What is the ideal Woman?
Every man has a different ideal when it comes,
that's true, but she may never come along ya loser fart-head, ya lousy poet ya,
but a thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Look into your soul
and perceive your falling away
into the endless nothingness
of hopes unresolved
to the pleasure of the search for destination,
whose frail reflection we face in dreams
and lie to ourselves about the things we would do if we were awake.
All you somnambulists, sleepwalkers, and nocturnalists
weaving geographical patterns nowhere to be found,
the ideal female is not necessarily a masculine fantasy
because ideals are unreal,
and says Plato the dog, “Woof! Lets do it ‘doggie-style’ like men”.
As a poet, I deal in ideals.
If I write it down it is no longer a memory that can be embellished.
Such a talented group to be entertained by!
How can I possibly create?
Thank you for not damaging my precious complacency.
Well, precious but comparatively indestructible
until awakened to the dawn of hope
when against all horrors I cannot reach
to get a job, a blow job or to call your mom.
“Ga-ga-ga-gack”? It's not so gross.
It's actually quite good for you,
so enjoy giving, for sometimes
the Parkdale Arts Collective comes and goes
along with a Niagara Falls captain.
The capped man says “They tried to cut me upstairs!”
and shows me his gashed forearm.
Lots of sores on people around here. White.
I’m afraid I only have time to write one simple phrase of rhyme.
Such things we say in the times of empty minds,
like "Tis the weather my love”,
or “Tis intelligent that in Heaven they have keg parties
where the flagons are packed with juices
made of platinum coil artists with gaping mouths
like little hungry birds going “cheap cheap” for beer,
but now wish to clear their minds of fermentation
for the wholesomeness of ecstasy is so high in fibre
that we shit pure love, fertile and rich to nurture life.
Get Life people! Get that into you sideways,
‘cause if I were to look at it in sequence I’d never see it at all.
I’d be stuck beneath your surface
to mingle with your messy liquids,
while instead I want to escape from clichés,
hot air, and crowds of people with nothing,
where ancient gravestones look down on recent monsters.
But meanwhile, as the young housewife glazingly sterilizes
her sink and bathroom fixtures,
the amoeba plot their revenge
and limb her leg so tenderly that they bleed her dry (Sterile).
Whores in Parkdale can be pretentious too,
or pretend-tious, but amoebas on whores in Parkdale are not.
“What I am about to say is not written in this book,
but are my own personal views”,
so racks the mind of adolescent boys.
When you have teenagers, the views you speak are not your own,
but they are so similar to your own that you can shut up,
giving the blessing of neutral silence, free of disparagement.
This whore, she sure can suck and she sure can fuck!
Oh, yah! What a money maker,
and her mouth pursed by habit still remains
in the rigour of the blood-let knife.
Getting up from my seat,
the fabric of my shorts stuck on the cracked lazy chair.
Lazy Boys with laser toys, they blast my mind
with a tight light which hears a music far from psalms,
sorrowful songs, or songs of passion
that seer my heart with grief at your loss.
But jaws hang slack on tendons,
sore slack to kneecaps from laughing,
funny how chest muscles shuffle
and histamines flow as in the blackest crying jags,
phlegmy violence with the same bleary aftermath.
So do some heroin, cocaine, or l.s.d and get high.
Enjoy, live, there are so many things
to move to the resonance of your personal soul,
and that’s the secret that Socrates never passed on:
“What is the sound of one egg frying
as it sizzles its way up into our consciousness?”
I would rather be unconscious with a hard-on
than awake without one.
A hard-on for every new idea
and a desire always to explore, move and create,so be happy.
Happy? It's one continuous laugh, isn’t it, this “Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy”?
That’s what we are, so enjoy it, and that makes us happy,
but “happiness” is the ultimate fantasy,
like on Fantasy Island. “The plane!”.
In fact, I’ve found happiness in my pocket,
and there, for another rub it grows disproportionately.
My god man! I’m a poet not a doctor!
The smell of this old book,
this second time around antiquarian army remainder
where the dusts of bullets and bones merge in peace,
where voices of the dead, silent and haunting,
speak of mysteries obvious to the unsheltered eye.
Speak for yourself! mystery this:
L’angoise! Quel angoise!
Despair, where should I put the tears?
Will someone please stop slapping me and just tell me?
A Lifetime of caring for others, we don’t talk about it,
that she soiled each and every by-law of Nik-Nik Limited Will
to ensure that the old stay young.
I am bored with all this graffiti.
There’s no originality at all, but I don’t have much to add either,
though I think that I’ve said it before,
that this page is what you make it,
quite like the too often heard quip,
“Newton was right, this is the centre of graffiti,
a symbolist cosmosis connected and disjointed
in a rush of writhing velict."
Sounds like a Courtney Love reference to me,
Blather head, blather feet and blather asteropitropicalitheritic.
Copulastingly, the words you read are a hook in <span>my</span> mouth
that reels my attention, spirit and consummate passion
in sparles of graffiti.
Shall we then dance,
or would you like to pretend that you’re tired
and your feet hurt and you can’t remember who I am?
The lecture is interrupted by the melody of a songbird.
Do songbirds fuck, or what?
Only if they wear musical condoms.
Songbirds or hummingbirds
that can’t make their thoughts known to others
define rhapsody rhapsodically as they flutter
and mate midst sighing,
while the flying macaw shits on the tree it rests upon.
The shoulder of the bureaucrat speaks with my voice,
and that’s okay because he’s dead,
and why would we seek to raise the dead when we can procreate?
Unless that is the ultimate aim of recycling.
But then recycling should always be an ultimate aim.
I aim my Dick at a recycling bin
and shoot a load so that my sperm may be recycled
into life that begins at the end,
or ends before we start to throttle,
cut out, or inject the sarcasm.
How green was my valley?
It was like an emerald, jade,
or jasmine’s scent of decomposition.
No, it wasn’t jade, but fungus,
and not jasmine, but rotting cabbage.
Oh, how I miss my mother’s rotten cabbage,
dreams of Ozma’s emerald palace, sweetly scented,
and getting blown by a hooker named Jasmine
while cabbage is laid rotting across her breasts exhuming broken need.
Doctor’s visit. I’m wishing I won’t get a hard on,
yeah, but my bedside manner, like when I’m at Ozma’s palace
doesn’t leave me and I am amputated
like an ampulatia with your sperm and pads and rotting,
I have all I need for my camping trip.How camp to trip the witty, pithy, cynical phrase,
so I spoke, knowing absolutely and unreservedly
that once I did the idea would be lost.
But I spoke nevertheless, just to avoid the awkward silence,
and it turned out that people only knew the lyrics to “The Sound of Silence”
and phrases from, “I Have No Mouth, But I Must Scream”.
I tried a dull knife to pry the words,
while an Indian poet cut his own tongue out as the ultimate statement
that the first immigration wave occurred fifteen-thousand years ago across the Bering Strait.
First people preceded second, and as their children may we inherit yet this week.
Take the Lord in the first race
and give the change to the bum who demands a “Give” that instills fear in your purse.
For the answer to everything, try the graffiti in women’s washrooms,
then try washing women in men’s washrooms,
because only dirty women go there to seek renewal
in the flow of semen’s upstream swim.
Why can’t a woman be clean to renew in semen?
Because only my semen is worth renewing,
so reduce your penis, renew your semen and recycle your brain.
Seamen are young men who travel the ocean green
while escaping the cold shower burn,
pointedly pointing their briny brawn
and thinking that they’re sinking an enemy vessel
with their male torpedoes.
Abuse yourself because abuse is the death of compassion for yourself,
but O, O, O, compassion as discussed here is a senseless tool
that merely places us on a seat.
Compassion herr in aruncun contomph achione.
The best of us should comply to smoke or not to smoke,
and that was the question.
We ringed a rosy round it but only the smokers fell,
addicted to their deaths, they danced no more,
but smoked like a fuckin’ chimney.
Why don’t you put that in your conk?
Simply put, it is over and yet it is merely the beginning.
But with smoke gone now, everything truly is much clearer.
At “The Orgy” you will find many wonders,
and the greatest of them is the ashes
of what was once human and worthwhile and is now only...
What was the name of that Van Morrison tune?
“Into The Mystic”.
What’s it mean anyways, eh?
Ashes have no deeper meaning
than to be a carbon copy of death
as it reproduces itself throughout eternity,
death must be a whore on the corner
and mom’s apple pie is really a shit sandwich.
Death wouldn’t be so bad if not for the fear that Hell is American.
Is apple pie culturally correct in the ozone,
or will there be some other kind of pie then, in Heaven?
In Heaven one don’t has to worry about dirty glasses
because they has self cleaning sunglasses in Heaven, for Heaven’s sake!
So that’s mom, Heaven, ozone and apple pie: a wonderful combination,
while Death is an abeyance ringed with the smoke of loose packed cigarettes
(the American ozone that kisses the correct skies of Heaven).
Get the fuck off the stage, mom! You can’t read poetry!
A-pies, B-pies, C-pies, D-(hair) pies, monkey pies, monster pies and me.
All this talk about pies is making me hungry. Hungry for...
and yet, multiple surfaces allow for much interplay,
but are you always so bumpy when people try
to draw on you to recreate the ideal into a caricature of itself?
My ideal is a woman who can suck a cock
and lay a beer backwards,
but an ideal can be cumbersome
like that vituperative outpouring: “love”.
In prison they fuck up fried eggs.
Imagine what they do to human lives.
Thank goodness prisons don’t run the world
or we’d all have scrambled emotions,
but if you can’t do the time than don’t do the crime.
Make a rhyme and feel it as a nightmare
though dreams should be sweet.
Sweet dreams my Darling.
I hate it when the skeletons in my closet come to haunt me,
but it's better than my ugly aunts with the big hair who say,

“Give us a kiss! A big smacker on the dirty poo poo
that shits out the nightmares of a constipated mind."
Mind you, my mind won’t let me feel what I know is there
and I’m so fucking tired of deadening my anger,
that useless damned coping mechanism!
Wake up and smell the horse-shit!
It's all that's left of the prince and his horse shit nights,
great nights of diarrhea diaries and emotional h.s.
You lookin’?
The shit hits the fans.
Who the fuck do you think you are, you loser Pakie a-hole?
A love child of the sixties?
Then go in peace. Go with a piece of love,
take it home, misplace it in your room,
then search for it while cursing madly
till it takes you by surprise.
But, if like the sock
that goes missing in the dryer
it simply can’t, then ouch!
How to measure the substance of abuse?
E=MC squared
or Entertainment equals two Masters of Ceremony.
Poetry is poetency ,
sex is two characters
trying to find one personality,
life is a sexually transmitted disease
and sex is three minutes of squelching,
but the other seven minutes are mysterious.
We keep wondering where they hid them.
Hide this fucked up whoring congregation,
all snowy white with its seven blooded dwarfs.
I was ready for seven inches,
not one inch seven times over.
Oooooo, I was inching for the other side of my own borders
while circling the piety of self indulgent trolls,
images which root the utter cyan violence of one’s own realism.
These things I fear as a psalm may dare jest about  wise, flowing blood
that nurtures the Earth with the fruits of women as an offering.
O, swear on the Moon! It's about the only constant we’ve got.
Some would ascribe that this is an orgy, but where’s the beef?
I’m too afraid to say I’m scared until I’ve conquered my fear
and then my saying it becomes a mourning prayer.
Join the eagle in her killing you tomorrow,
but you’re my punching bag today.
Battered woman with blackened eye,
dark orbs stared back at her,
a mere shadow of the man she once knew that said,
“Bite my soul’s ear, purse it like a pig,
then stake the lobe to the inside of your thigh
and let it bleed into out of within without
inside the set of matching teacups with the little blue and silver flowers
like tiny blackened eyes, blackened like toast
and equally devoid of expression.
Some eyes look like dark stones in a black pool,
not only no expression, but no blankness either,
and they chisel out words like, “Freedom”
that slice free the rocks of empty beaches
filled with buried policemen
who provide ample snacks
for waterbugs as small as the stars
which I no longer can see
because the galaxy is closing.
Fuckin’ losers! Piss on ‘em while whores are suckin’ my dick!
The second coming is coming again, my god,
but no, I am a non believer in second comings or cum,
though here we are, third coming,
and I wish I wasn’t here.
I wish I was having a multiple coming instead of this mandible wax job,
biting through the lips and tasting candied blood..
Yes, blood tastes good, but it doesn’t quench the thirst of my hungry lips seeking deeper sustenance.
Will you sustain me with “Hi! Happy New Year!”?
Even your walls can come down over New Years.
Week 120
Even your walls can come down over New Years,
but they have to be cleaned because the blood
and afterbirth have stained my mind.
I don’t mind at all. New Year, old month,
only you can renew yourself,
and in the aftermath of renewal,
blood can be quite cleansing
when the wound of the wind up toy springs a leak
to pee memories onto a parched thought
that writes poems on the wing of a fly.
Then the poetry takes flight!
Swatting the fly with one hand clapping,
he should have used the chopsticks.
Crack smokes the weasel
and then rushes out to catch
another unrecorded bus, route number and destination.
The journey is endless as the bored detachment with which I watch you,
but still we make an unofficial stop.
A pit stop if you will at the Gladstone.
This is not fear.
It is feeling you can’t fear the fear once you got  it
and the scary thing about any emotion,
whether fear, love, hate, whatever,
is that you don’t have it, it has you.
It has you in the morning, it has you in the eve,
it has you when you’re doubting,
or even if you choose to believe in ghosts.
Umgowa! "Repent, Harlequin!" said the Ticktockman.
Can’t think, brain dumb,
inspiration won’t come,
poor ink, fucking pen,
best fingers clutching,
eyes closed but nothing happens.
No one knows.
I scratch on paper,
“All women want to be with me
and all men want to be like me.”,
but how much cottage cheese can you vomit
before you know that the deep dish pizza
is falling down the rabbit hole?
You scream, ”I’m late for my funeral!”,
but to your funeral I won’t come.
However, to your wife’s...
Shut up your face, you meshugina poet!
You meshugina stugatz!
But I won’t shut up.
I’ll talk you to your grave,
or some reasonable minded empty receptacle depository
that’s transitory. to the umbilical rendering of a broken Tonka toy
that’s shovelling out the remnants of my emotions
so that I am left with only everything
and searching to be an expert on every topic.
I know nothing, yet I see all.
I am a giant and all is within my grasp,
but I’m living half your life before the realization
that my life is minuscule and I am shaking,
I am shaking!
I can’t move except to reach inside your eyesand pull myself up by a rope of eyelashes
into the darkened caves of black, mirrored light
where I’ll dip my reputation into your tarred vision.
Folk music and folk you too! No guitars!
Folk this ya funny fuckin’ mutants!
For folk sake get a life,
and you touch my wife you grinder and I’ll not sink.
The board may require such officers, employees and agents of the corporation
it is too cold and if I have one more coffee I’m going to puke!
Life is offal, and coffee the dark rush hour shuffle
to the Babylon 7-11
where Slushies return winter to absinthe afternoons
and reach beyond the lies.
Absinthe makes the heart go faster
than Superman on a bad return
as he crashes a crater with his failed landing gear,
his legs crumpling on the 7-11 tarmac,
then staggers up to Stagger Lee and says,
“She likes me, she don’t like you,
and she don’t like much that aint for sale."
Intermission at Mission Control,
the only write way to skin a cat is to fleece it, so why be afraid?
What you believe is true for now, for you.
At the bottom of your soul baby
is rockin’ jello,
spun through the stars
on an apron string cushion
when green hunger breaks against the wall and slides down,
and the blue plywood moon rises yellow.
Red anger surged in his throat
that barked a surge of bile
through the swirling flames that spewed profanity.
You’d think that that just by-law of gravity song would end
after some deliberation about money and the value of human excrement,
a fine way to spill the scent of spoor beneath forever.
I’ve fallen apart into myself,
so rock my world motherfucker
or get out of my country!
I’ve been Earth for her,
I’ve fallen a park into myself
and I’ve been tickling the carpet at The Alphabet Orgy again.
My snakes eyes was bloodshot cause he danced so hard he bruised his hip.
What you believe is true,
but it's spun dizzy,
valueless and confused on a bright stage set deep in my chest
screaming an adulterated ride.
I land on its spiny edge,
and I wish I existed on a diagonal wavelength of time.
I lost my glasses today and I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.
But why do my fingers tap out a futile rhythm
when my body whole is sight,
before turning in on the fresh laundered pillow case,
your natural scent blows me out of the room
to receive, absent minded, the venomous libations offered.
These words, these phrases,
the drip, drip, drip from random slashed arteries,
and the music brings on coloured lights of eternal devotion
which fade when you unplug the light.
I bought myself a watch today,
so that now when I wait for you I can be much more.
Seconds for me please sir,
seconding the motion to receive the rapture,
seconding the motion to moan the dinosaur blues,
or to read our futures in the light
of the moon reflecting on the water.
Retrace your footsteps, erase your duress,
you look for a new world, but you find old girls.
You try to close your eyes
but your eyes are already close-captioned in little bits,
not all at once, it goes too quickly that way.
All in all it was a most enjoyable nightmare,
but the bunnies were restless.
Retrace empty speed!
Where?! Under or above?! Where?!
In the bowels of cosmic teddy bears
that shit dreams into our planet of Earth?
The shit has a foul presence,
and yet it was a most enjoyable nightmare
but the phosphorescent transsexuals
were rifling her memories,
stealing the unborn skin of quiescence,
then shucking it like the noisome in a hurry.
She crossed the street,
her feet blood beating the ground
and her heart lost
along the heartbeat of ambitions
until I got some bitches workin’ for me.
Motherfucker! Some folks put the “bi” in bizniz.
It's all done with hand puppets
and a big bottle of baby oil
that dribbles from the button well
to moisten what could’ve led to a kiss
after actions of female pubic hair,
(the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Splat, splat”, goes the final hope of the final buffoon,
and though it is but a tease,
I think that the littlest toe on the left foot
has more sexuality than shaved beaver, yum,
the only truly Canadian chewing gum,
but the plastic dildo easing from its sheath asks,
“What about having a real cock, and what is truly Canadian?”.
Canadians have no identity except a fuckin’ Mountie,
and if pressed to the gills I’d rather be playing Twister.
He said, “Eat the Cool Whip”, as she sighed and glanced toward the child.
It wasn’t his child. It was a nobody’s child,
a Tuesday’s child. Who knows?
Not Tuesday, who’s been the bitch wife of Rosy the riveter
driving home her image
with a hammer-headed caterpillar
twelve speed ride to the eye of her storm.
Und drang, storm and stress,
the stress of hearing Cad Lowlife hesitate.
This poem fails the Turing Testicle Torture
perfected by Doctor Diatrab
that writhes against the pisser
into another whorehouse
full of fucking scumbag condoms and suffering,
trips merrily upstairs to fumble with button flies
and the problems of having no underwear.
The rapid clicking of the taxi meter
matches the beating of my heart
as we fuck you all very much, doggy style,
pushing, pulling and drawing from the scream of
“Cotton pickin’ doggy bitch bastard,
poo poo, pee pee, bum bum!”.
Ha ha hah, you kids and your astrological predictability!
Why, when the Virgin’s breast punctured leaks taint the milk shake,
you up spit it out like the words pulled from your bloody mind-boggle false love,
while the whore procuring financial benefit
for the use of dissension in the rank of cheese,
where children sit bathing  in  the rancid cycle of birth and rebirth,
endless rejuvenation through the womb of The Toronto Sun,
spun forth and so quite the sickness of O.J. - Juice - U.S.A.
When will we be sane about pubic entertainment?
The scars mark the days on my skull.
Those days which seemed empty once,
now in reflection they shine.
James Dean Martin was not gay either.
Disputation is a sign of unenlightenment.
Well I don't agree with that.
You  and your problems must be discussed
before we begin each session from now on.
But life must not include electro-shock ham and cheese, that tastes great with AW-40 motor-oil;
but add butter, secretions from an aroused spider-monkey, and bake in a splattered womb.
Lost, floating, seeking that constant craving?  Patience, patience, patience,
budda-boom, budda-bing, still not gay, yet I'm stuck with a McCock in my mouth
and I dream of sodomizing Mother Theresa,
but she  is busy helping others
make up  cross-word puzzles for the Sunday Times-
Two down-The ROM as thw ER is a Saintly Being.
Four across-Christ  was a hairy monkey-hustler from Brooklyn on avenue-"A",
bending backwards to pay, tracing the picture of a dead  president.
I like the sound of screaming motorists
as rampant cyclists run for mayor of Parkdale
on a platform of  hatred and involuntary euthanasia.
Tower-taxes exterminate Criss Korwin Kisinsky
for fun,love or money in a  whore's pussy.
Have to move the car by 12:00
or pay the $120.00 to the city coffers,
and they need the money.
Is  this the next thingee to write on?
Groovy man, do your own wild dissections
across a wide fuckin' poxy poetry  open stage.
The lines are clean,but evenly spaced,
across her back, across her face.
She wore a veil of opaque silence.
Staccato rain punctuated the windscreen
of our Bonnie and Clyde mask of composure
that she, void  of culture, class or hysterical laughter,
thoughts pissing into the nucleus of Parkdale's pathaic streets,
and the moon cutting an ivory hole in the sky,
faces are glass and in the crowds, can't see the pain,
sewer gurgles suddenly.
The sky  is covered with a big blade curtain,
everything hides into the darkness,
no creatures dissolved in the sky-void,
lip-less  grins screeching from the heat,
I vanish with you into the centre of the sky,
moon flowing rocks like alluvial.
I refuse to involve myself with the Gumby Bible
because it distracts me from the sharp blades of judgment
that trim my soul, shaping it into a poxy fuckin' hipster singles dance
in the Catskill Mountains, where I‘m drunk and sitting in  my own barf.
Solitude is loneliness, joy requires an audience,
comme le soleil, chaud,
in the valley between the  mountain peaks,
a big bloodshot eye with astigmatic aspirations
that blinks away the visions impaled behind
the pain I run towards,
the blanket of comfort in my hands.
I'd had bigger hopes for this valley, much higher.
Higher in  fact than the heavens above.
My hopes had fallen at this point,
red-crimson, pounding, pulsing mists,
my nerves  pulled shatter-glass tight,
reaching out, out, sitting on a cliff high above the clouds.
A single flower clings and sings its song out loud.
No matter, this is the point to explain
the relation between mountains, valleys, flowers, sky and clouds.
Sitting on my sacred seat, Christian,
I was reading The Gumby Bible and I missed everything.
Hey, did  anyone remember to water that single last flower?
No? The Gumby Bottle has.
Flower this and go fuck yourself up the ass,
cause cunts are out of reach
and the Christ-child left His lunch money at home
and couldn't phone Dialling for Dollars,
so he had to wash his clothes in iodine,
spreading, "I am the Christ-child!
I am hither! I am the Jew!
I am the sunshine!
I am left behind to become a hipster
fading into an ashtray-dead cigarette butt
and half a glass of bourbon.
I am the Christ you wait for
and I am an alcoholic
behind bushes you pass daily
with heads toward the sky
and neck in red brick railroad hotels,
a stop in time, yet not so far,
you want it here, you count the par,
growth in such, support a must
and open-hearted fluid
in the never ending battle
that inspires us when we look back
across our scattered intentions
and organized trash.
We throw it down the tube,
let it crash and act like it is a new way for cash
and shit on our own thoughts,
making them good for t.v. consumption.
Click-click-click,
the channels speed on by,
messing through the ether.
Not a cloud in the blue ether,
except for one blemish in the void
that grew while it was diminished by
greed, jealousy, anger and sharp knives.
Ouch, it's a cold, hot night.
I love you! I love you! I love you!
Will you teach me then with this love,
or will you bore me and bring me back
to where I've been too often?
The brass-knuckles are an illegal weapon
when the words of song-smiths are censored on CHUM-104 f.m.
it doesn't make me as frightened as the thought of waking
to see not me, not me, not me, not you.
'The Poems" is not a dream. It is night.
You are asleep in body but not in soul,
absorbing every morsel of life,
this environment around me, as I sleep.
Embrace the unknown where darkness lies
and enlighten with knowledge that you will find my name is Marcel,
I like little boys, little toys, politically incorrect behaviours.
They won't let me say what needs to be said.
Toronto, Boston, what it should be,
detached from profit, fame, neon-lighted names.
Words step in where song might.
Her hair was up in a bob,
the light streaming across one side of her face, and  back lit,
and yet I wanted the sound of one hand clapping.
Trees are falling but who hears the fucking sound?
Sounds like my mother was a whore
and my father was the pimp what raped the image of my anger in drag
which glowed a sequin flower.
The bee wished to sting itself,
but instead talked to the magic within.
With a long breath it took the magic from the syringe and ouch!
But that was just the beginning of flight,
a launch into physical impossibility
like a falling man in from Brooklyn.
Fuckin' A! Fuckin' B!
Give me a fuckin' "C" for catastrophe
because we are all descending
into the height of a plastic sense of smugness,
blinding us from liberating reality,
from responsibility in a moon drenched night.
I howl in the stillness of midnight, I dance in the sunrise.
Have a good life you son of a bitch,
Cad's Jizz is coming,
coming, going, arriving, departing, scheduled
and/or erratically landing
in an unexpected wave of anticipation,
tainted with the longing to be
the way it was meant to be,
but not the way it happened
under clouds pierced by rays
searching my pockets for government secrets,
and I believe in Dog despite the bite on my leg.
Hey! Prince! Get off my leg,
and while you're at it,
stop stepping on my eyeball!
I'm not in the mood for a game to hurt myself,
but I know where to eyeball this pussy and Cad's jizz.
Thank you, Paul. I  like "your stuff" tonight.
Thank you for dropping it.
Your "other stuff", that's wherever it hangs its hat is its home.
It's not snowy here.
Under my feet the concrete is silent.
I've been unable to move,
one foot in a boot stuffed full of things
found not anywhere near here but not from here.
I watch and listen like a child
caught in an incredibly boring display
of peacock fans torn from their hosts,
pretending to fucking like it
and suck it up real good!
Yeah, I've done that scene:
role-played many a time
and delivered a pizza
while eating a marmalade sandwich.
You're lying! Lying in the form of a lizard,
waiting to lick your sister.
She enjoys it though,
thinking what might happen
if the big comet did not hit Earth,
ending the golden age of reptiles,
but ran out of gas at the drive-in
and tried to pick up a ride,
seeking to forget the cruel, cruel future,
and foreseeing gerbils running,
wild apples getting rotten,
red, swollen, ebbing tomorrow.
Those who have not what those who have
desire where what was once is now.
But now you be crying that homicide
is not a reasonable extension of reality,
but the sledgehammer falls anyway.
I like to see you "sinner" this! Suck it and spit!
I can't hold on.
The pretty eternals lie to the internal horror.
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder's hurricane,
but Bob Dylan don't know nothin' 'bout boxin',
or driving a team of six into the mouth,
so eat my fuck and shut up, fuckie-face!
I warn you, I am mommie dearest,
so don't fuck with  me bitch-boy
'cause like a bolt seeking the company of a familiar wrench,
my nuts tighten!
It's succour, not "suck off",
so get off my book you philanthropist nimrod
or I'm gonna bite my pimento
in the middle of the garden salad centre
of the universal flux
of poets and shattered hips!
Crippled meaning seeking words for genius minds,
confused and miscomprehended
as mad tendencies
to those common masters
who are yet standing apart,
stepping over the shadowed gutter-snipes
when the songs are blood,
the words, the flesh of your dreams,
ahh, the possibilities will end in the end.
I think, therefore I'm not sure
I'm sinking, therefore I'm drinking to survive.
My Mind's below water.
I'm out of the paddling-pool. I run out.
I am in overwhelm,
but art can be like that, it's okay.
I felt as if I was standing there
and there was one thing left:
pictures of you.
That was what was felt,
and just to ask for some sort of souvenir
would've been impossible.
Time has robbed me of that.
It's gone, never to even be imagined again
without the help of a power screwdriver
and a microwave replacement kidney to inspire repatriation.
Walk on the thin, crusted waters'
landscape of sedated tramps
that heat open to burn the distance with flash,
and all the dreams that have died,
faded to irrelevance, they are dead already!
I don't give a shit, you mellow wanker,
where's your frantic rubbins'
capable, capable, capable, capable, capability?
Rundigger, rundigger, run, run, run!
Scratch a pretentious artsy
and you'll get a fascist eating machine
that doesn't know which ending
is the beginning of a terminal.
But there are no terminals,
only beginnings and ends
in circles encircled in a flight
from essence into existence
and stuck in actuality.
So stare it down and see if it don't rush
and project to protect.
Yum, yum! I like red,
and stagnation seeps out of my pores,
trickling down a warm leg.
Vitamins and red beans are in my pocket,
tasting of Mexico, sand and tequila,
and I love you guys,
love that spin in my head.
Colours are bright again, bright again,
yeah that ole black magic's got me in a spell,
that ole black magic that you know so well.
Nay! New nay new,
jackin' up vitamin "C" into my veins,
bring on the pain.
The sidewalk is now my scarf,
the needle just chewed my dick off,
and my grandfather is sodomizing a burnt out television
till the cowboys come homo,
and telephone booths (transparent change-rooms),
succumb to naked pubic hair!
But lets talk about funerals. Lets talk about funerals.
When people die I reply, "Sorry they died,
but its the kind of thing only your dog understands really,
but of course a dog will understand almost anything,
they are such mindless beasts.
Well, not really mindless, just not in love with funerals.
Lines, no images, and indifference.
"Beasts" means never having been to a funeral,
never having felt the skin crimple.
I am sorry I am no expert on love or life,
but expertise is overrated.
I know everything,
but I still remain a prisoner of conscience,
breathing too much air,
and a lounge lizard in an undersea McDonalds
that sweats urine into a universal mind-stump.
Don't fuck with my metaphor.
Peaches and cream were never my flavourful thing,
but a straight shot suits me every time.
When you believe in yourself, anything is possible,
possible and achievable, but not necessarily tangible,
possible and a cheap fable, but not necessarily tangerine,
so I think I'll take the subway home,
fall asleep and miss my stop.
Stop! Fart in the face of missed opportunities
but break teeth biting into the laminated pubes.
Hair is winking at me, but I don't wink back.
I'm not strong enough for any old sad sod's shoddy pull and tug
every fortnight and every night in between,
yet somehow I know everything is going to be wet,
shiny, slippery, wiggling, and joyful
like me, like you, like us.
Sight the target and fire at its fat little ass,
dislodging the ice-cubes.
"Crunch,crunch", teeth chatter,
lips clench and saucy cheeks bulge with captive feces.
Feces, feces, feces, feces, feces
on bird shit white paper, yet we know it's necessary.
Salt burns in the wounds of self-imposed pain,
burning the loss of loneliness, lacklustre and boring shit.
Hear ye, hear ye, do not we come to listen,
or being herded up is my way of telling you
I can't see the colour of your grandmother's socks.
Your shoes must have lead in them,
or maybe the big red "S" you see before you
is a figment of my imagination.
Still, I remember the mad money
in my Grandmother's socks,
and when she got mad she got even,
like a smooth beard or a tight moustache
under shining nose of Sunday-school teacher
preaching brimstone and hellfire
from the pulpit of eternal hennitude,
horseeing over scarceness
into the whoopdeedoo nightmare
of every cow that ever sold itself in a jukebox
for a piece of "Why".
At dinner, the sinner is the winner
and the entrée is the most evil and engaging,
while dessert piles up before even nod and wow.
Now stand still or we'll have to make you into something
or something, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,
and I said, "Write something meaningful already!
A vision of beauty, triumph, transcendence and wholeness."
Bomb Shelter Light is playing soon,
making love, harmony and noise.
He looked at me with his icy blue eyes
and asked me to sing him a melody, so I did.
The soft words floated out of my mouth
and gently across the prairie of my oblong dyslexia,
twisting images into Dalian portraits of Madonna with child,
sucking the semen off the silicone implants.
Drippy silicone, like the amniotic fluid.
Thus begins this day of the Gumby Bible,
and it's not clay, but if it isn't then it must be blue gelatin moulded in a mirror
and there isn't anything to do or say, but say this,
"Suck the jizz right out of my dick!"
Desperadoes blanketed under the shroud of everlasting conscience,
my humour, or sense of it fails me.
Tapping into that that that impossible
seems to sleepy dull all soul.
Do I have to? Have to? Havt?
No, stay tomorrow. Row? Ow? To to to Toto.
Toronto? I don't think we're in Canada any more.
We're floating on a land-locked island pretending it doesn't matter.
But matter hardly isn't matter, actually its energy plus nothingness,
or so says the physicist, Dr Hyram B. Hornswaggle,
from his office at the Sinister Subsidy Telepathic Transportain Ministry,
under the table in the back room of my favourite neighbourhood hideout
in the mean streets of Brooklyn, New York,
cuz its both tough and greasy.
No comment, but avoid donut contraband
unless it is filled with dragon-seed
that burns prophecy onto the divided tongue
which a woman can appreciate and enjoy
while her hands grab me by the back of my head
and convince me of the honesty of her convictions
and the contraband donuts
filled with cream-icon-creme-heads of hips.
I'm so hip I can't even see my leg,
but your leg is only a reminder of your body.
I see it and I want either to hump it or dump it.
There is more to Cad's Jizz Magazine.
It kicks ass and it's fuckin' phenomenal,
though less than awesome,
but it happens in Brooklyn
with enough internet mirage therapy.
You stick the modem up your ass
and then fax yourself to a Martian theme park
where you’ll construct jingles to advertise blind hookers
with leprosy and chronic nosebleeds,
who sell their vital organs on the corner
in exchange for toxic lipstick.
They’re in love with my dick
and addicted to my jizz,
so why, why must we move the stuff still?
Because it’s always greener
and some days are best remembered forgotten,
like when I found out like,
that all the hookers on Queen Street West are from Nova Scotia.
Ask Cape Breton Jimmy about Abicidanian burlesque,
co-drive epiphany formals,
good hockey insults,
or justice-khat material
and he’ll say,
“We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here
with wyrd bigful dread and woeful woe.”
January 10, 1712:
Clarissa lives to be foiled again by Cad Lowlife
and then hoisted on her own foil petard.
Why do some deaths take forever?
Yes, me too.
I wonder if the animal isn't filled with plastic dacron fibre-fill from the best taxidermy supply,
instead of fish or reptile from Manitoulin Island
where Italian girls suck my cock and swallow my Jew-jizz.
Ya, right.
Wishful thinking, you five-foot-four, basketball dunkin' Italian.
Go back to Italy.
The only position I am in to write anything is with pen to paper,
yet large tiger-roaches consume large portions of pained, painted, pained paint-parchment
which say, "X, y, z, open your mind and your heart
and receive that which comes to you.
Take care of one another, organize",
but if you say its  true, I don't want to have anything to do with it.
Heavy-foot stomped Big-foot, saying,
"Yes, me too! Fill me with plastic instead of fish!"
I like his iambic pentameter
and the rhythm of his boot-heel.
A cacophony of ideology.
Thatcher-Harris is back in town
from his most recent sex-change
in the walk through clinic.
"Clip, snip, sew,
and you wouldn't place what the omnipotent one does for kicks
after it leaves the Gladstone and turns in its badge.
It heads down to the Ex for an endless tilt on the tilt-a-whirl,
unless the Ex is closed,
and in that case it heads down to Jarvis street
where you will find nothing like the Ex
and never will get a blowjob or a motherfuckin' life, motherfucker.
What you'll find on Jarvis street aplenty are whores, whores and more whores
and an inability to find a word to follow what was written on the other side,
so instead you'll write the words,
"You love the stranger still.
The strangler who couldn't breath
and poetry turns my thoughts to random violence,
with brutal, undying love of hamburger dystrophy
if water bleeds another point, tearing little beef,
ground in water to drown".
If cut, we bleed, to wash away the poisons,
till in the bloodletting we shed a few pounds in therapy fees.
Take one quarter cup of crushed walnuts,
two teaspoons of nutmeg, a spent fuel-rod,
mixed blessings and pimps are following you home.
Hookers are paying me as the water rolls down Dufferin street,
to find  a resting place on Queen,
and the Queen sneers at watermarks from my pint of ale
and the freshly stale rings on my book of poems:
"Gladstone Musings", bound in a case thats dogeared
and well fingered in your clitoris,
and you enjoying it.
The food here's not bad,
but the vegetable magnetism
leaves a comic aftertaste,
revering blighted senses
asking for more
and tearing the stitches from my back
because you made me show them off like trophies,
the scars bearing witness
to the bleeding from stiletto heels and you.
This brutality you bare,
opens ways through caged stares,
but the monkeys just continue to grin
as primal screams dent the silence,
bending the limits of human comedy
into a tragedic principle of mind over matter
or fairy matter and energy,
but that doesn't matter.
Life is divine, the sweetest of wine,
being a line, and being a line is all there is,
so why am I always so hungry
for more tomorrow and more yesterday,
when today is the day of the guillotine slice
coming down on the neck.
The body is right and the head is left,
wrong, calloused, callous, callow,
and canary yellow with a call girl's never ending love
and a fridge magnet exercise
that is unfettered by vocabulary restraints.
Synapses mock!
Are people nought but cells, products and carriers?
Synapses mock, but mine are burnt to a crisp,
so I can't get there from here,
and I've lost my map.
Scant seconds ago I had a plan and destination,
poured my heart into a cup
and arrested your attention
against the hunger that raped your bones.
Scant seconds ago I had a plan and destination,
poured my heart into a cup
and arrested your attention
against the hunger that raped your bones.
The sheath of Christmas covers my birthday cake
and melts the cage of ice that bends my rage of passion
into a shitty-assed parody of aliveness.
Dear Toni, I left the pears in the fridge.
If you cut off the bruises they will turn all who dare to eat them to shut the crap.
Understand?
I don't need to hear anymore shit poems
because my brain is full of it.
Oh, oh, my heart
@# ^*+( @#%^*-=,
but I can't fuckin' read the last line,
so to hell with continuity.
Goddamn, does he know that I was born bad?
That I was born a radioactive baby,
but they put me in the fridge
so they wouldn't have to get out the lovely long knife to cut off bruises?
Love, amen and all that, Cad.
Whereas you don't have to talk dirty to turn me on
and you don't have to be cool to rule my world,
aint no particular sign that can make me
not pull a raindrop from my spoon-full of fire-water,
but only the surface ripples,
and the depths are heard through the sight of your echo,
which leads me back to the memory of the day
when I bought three apples for fifty cents
and paid for them in cashier's sweat of summer days.
Summer sun sizzling beyond reach outside above,
till evening's cool works out
and the cool sun sets
like a fat, sunburned rodeo clown
on my broken t.v.
while trying to rescue the fallen,
who’ve fallen into the brokenness
of their own humanity
while rolling in the feces of life,
when they could’ve flown through
and beyond the misty tops of courage
to clarity and clean conscience,
instead of tumbling
where self is the id of constipation,
so clean your ego’s bowels with sex-lax
so meagre that it expands into a universe of nothingness
and yee-hah, let's be cowboys
making quick pants in Desdemona’s arms,
then make a getaway quick as a bunny, honey.
I can’t make much sense of the previous lines
as it seems the writers are mentally unstable walking abortions
and freebie fucking macho loving whores.
I can’t make much sense of the previous lines
as it seems the writers are mentally unstable walking abortions
and freebie fucking macho loving whores of my key punch imagination
who intone the click clack swish of a pregnant thought
that was swelling through my parched attention span to a swank lounge.
And drinking everything from a brandy snifter
only previously used by a brandy sniffing dog
who sniffed Brandy until she slapped his ears,
but couldn’t get by.
She wanted to fly,
but was stuck in her shoe.
What to do when life looks and reflects from her glassy eyes
and I always forget where I was going or what I was saying.
We are the soup of the day ( mushroom broth)
though our wheelbarrow has a flat
and the glop swirls down the drain
to start looking like someone I knew.
Pine needles fill the wheelbarrow and dance inside it
as I bump up the landfill hill
and maybe I can’t cover it,
though I may be able to fill it with my dreams, or maybe not.
Maybe my chance is shot, but maybe,
maybe I will change the course of this insanity
thats turning, turning, spinning, spinning
and spiralling down this path of change.
I scream, I cringe, I hear older voices of sponges, nothing but sponges.
Get rid of the red! I want the red  gone!
The  ascent of the sponge diver
brings the brilliant Sunset,
with each silent ray bending
and turning through the wonderfully cloudy brine
towards the end of my vehement peccadilloes
that scream caresses into the broken seams of hell,
when the darkness crawls in I fade,
and can’t find my light anymore.
So I wait until time can befriend me,
but then I find that I am hiding from my light
and clenching my eyes to remain hidden
inside of my clenched heart,
cross-legged in a corner of it’s cellar
where blue cobwebs hang curtains from the wood,
and then I’d go slummin’ and lovin’ every minute of it.
I’d forget the meaning and just listen to it’s sound
while imagining it’s shape.
The humming and mumbling of the raze jazz won’t stop until,
“Slup!”, a thought comes running down
through the lean pint glass
and imagination rises over the frothy sound of nudes,
nudes, nudes, all behind the glass and encased on walls.

THE END.

But it doesn’t end.
It just comes and comes and comes
down from it’s aerial watusi
and around the bend in the arm of Charles Atlas
to slam clumsily into the suddenly appearing
Sicilian vespers of the heavy laden night
until it finally gets lost in the subtler veins of Barbie,
that can’t be seen.
Strange isn’t it, when you can’t see Barbie’s veins?
I’m starting to feel them nevertheless.
When I was eight and a half I looked as cute as a doll,
with blue veins over white-pink hair
and blonde dresses that veiled my final defeat of sleep once again,
spun by   cafés   on the shore as seen through petrified windows
while waiting for the spring sheep
and calves, newly born and hopeful,
that make it through the poisoning silt
and through the sunny meadow
where the scent of wildflowers flows,
oblivious to the problems of the world, oh yeah,
to pull the centre posts of the circus tent
amid the smell of candy apples and cinnamon mint.
So what does she take in her entertainer’s guise?
A ham sandwich or a piece of rocket slime
that's crawling lazily down the remnant
of a once proud leaf that was beginning to wilt in shame,
then falls to the Earth to be buried deep in the humus of human existence?
But what is human existence but endurance,
the enduring of insults and laughter
from the ones who one thinks are what friends.
You have friends?
I don’t take orders, I give em,
and you are all quite deserving of death!
The universe is not ticked by my backward talking  phonograph
as it spins imaginary webs today across the breast of the sky.
Why do I want to fly so much when I can’t seem to touch
nuns washing their black habits in white water and splashing like schoolgirls, naked,
with eyes clenched tighter than they instruct their pupils to keep their legs between the tracks?
Because man is a bad animal,
lay the corpse of a bad man who died in a drunken animal haze.
But what do you know of life? You’re not Sicilian,
though you are silly and maybe just a little over written in your self declining,
but forget it.
Forget what?
I can’t remember. I, I can only see haze.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners
now, and now, and now, and now
while artists preach like Baptists instead
of musing like the elves they profess to be,
naked and covered in fruit preserves,
while hanging in the trees like fairy tale figures.
Cheetah and Cougar, basically are the big cats,
but someone pass the papaya pipe because I’m losing consciousness.
Stella! Stella! I am a tough Mamajama! Mama!
The jammies are in the wash,
it's after the end of the world,
and my pipsqueak animosity
compels me to envelope you in my arms
and start hugging you
until you start laughing with fear,
but crying with improved trade.
With reliable peace l’America is souring my coffee cream
and leaving faint stains on the face
of my Partridge Family clock’s
long Hubba Bubba mourning alarm
on the grave of dawn,
disintegrating into worky wacka doo dah,
Jamestown Racetrack, five miles low,
but breaking speed barriers built on the found.
Apologies to Michael Johnson notwithstanding,
we are not fast until we are nailed down
to float in Jello pudding,
with machine guns blazing at Bill Cosby
to pin the electric blue day circles around the bridge.
Let us not mention the fact that we are lost in the presence of an untitled God
who parades in delicate underclothes composed of  laces and frills,
but no, even the divine have salty thoughts that make them thirsty.
Aaar! Quite the rasp of sorrows are swallowed if you’re not part of the problem.
You’re part of the solution if you’re not participating. Then there’s real action.
Yet for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,
so it's progress, regress, protest and reset with pain.
Society suffers while the individual prospers
and man’s ultimate sin is progress,
but then what’s his job
and how is he to determine the ultimate?
This is what Job wondered
while pondering the sins
he had righteously assigned to God,
when suddenly a whirlwind appeared
to un-invent the wheel.
Could he stop from riding
on this tricycle of relinquished sanity?
Quite an auspice, the re-linking of puzzle-pieces.
Everyone has a right piece
but the pieces don’t seem to get together
unless of course they have cars in which they can drive,
but most of the pieces don’t wish to drive
because it doesn’t seem that the brakes
are filled with enough Jonestown Koolaide
to stop the counter-orbit
of the unshackled Fred and Ethel Murtzs
and Rickies yelling, “Lucy! Lucy!
Quality is an autocratic element
traced with bitterness and neon in blue!”
The Sun wrote letters to the Moon
that went unanswered
since she’d shacked up with Venus,
had a galaxy of overdrives,
fell into gravity and scraped her knees,
then turned around to ask me,
“How are you?”.
“I am not”, I answered,
then farted rocket fuel and took off
while she hung on to my balls
and sucked my dick with wretched abandon.
The blisters of her peeled lips spoke dirty songs
to balm the torn identities
of the second-hand paroximatic hemodorphins
that circumnavigate the rising paradox
of broken lust and its stripped out idols,
but how to grow pumpkins
is to make a mound with your hands
when the ground is wet in springtime
and the leaves are cleaned from autumn,
but not before the kids have had a chance
to hide all kinds of things, even sometimes me.
I really need to cry, but not now.
Now there’s too many other things.
Of course crying is a weapon I use.
A distant wetness from realizing that as I grow older how young I am.
Still young in thought
and yet remote in the sex that transpires tears.
I need a lay!
At last blink I departed on a journey
of tracing down your cheek
until I got to the St Lawrence
and then exchanged myself
for a dime-store imitation
of rain pouring heavily on the earth
under your umbrella.
The speed of shredding water
on drunk figures who stood in corners
masturbating with the strength of twenty men.
Even Bozo, however cannot,
cannot make these fine drunken men
stop having their bras suck Mister Io,
suck him until the gross avengers come
in thunderstorms that conquer
the only ones wearing green for half an hour,
then they jerk chickens, sour their balls,
and scum suck in bimbos
that dance the watusi in tutusand drown roses in the sweat
of travelling Europe on thirty cents a day.
Swiftly I break the sound of speed
in my super-turbo jet
only to jump recklessly
with my green and pink parachute
towards a yellow field of olives,
black, green and white,
proving that when love is a triangle it's not square,
but rather more like the stoplight
at the corner of College and Kindergarten
where you give me pleasure.
Yeah! I wish you don’t know what he gives you
or what you take. So what?
He fucked, but I’m not thinking too much
about pleasure these days, just pain,
but I’m not going to let it stop me
from trying to write a new script
for casual open stage goers
who are waiting also for inspiration that is not self,
which is the funkiest thang you can do with a stray potato masher
and two lost little Cabriolets headed for a sunset
across distant seas to sing “Under The Sea”
while making shepherd’s pie with gravy and a lot of tables?
Why don’t the wild Irish petunias converge in weeping dramatic chords
while the chords in her head make her free to sing,
make her to surface and to soar
with her nipples hardening
as the saliva wet appendage he calls a tongue
probes her mounds of flesh for signs?
Reluctantly she pushes him away,
while in unison her lovely eyelashes bat down,
down to meet the very flesh that hungers and avoids.
How many sides can be counted, quantified, or qualified even,
like the number of coloured sheep it takes
to build a bridge to your depths.
Multitudinous masks plunge like lemmings
over the cliff of your indignant recriminations
that die on an unknown goodbye.
The heart of nighttime strolls through graveyard grounds
with you who have periods of weakness.
Dorms of schoolgirls in white blouses
snicker and eat candy bars,
and I wait in the tennis court
“ho humming” while sitting
on the portable step
and yearning to imaginate
their cotton flower underwear
as it flusters in the wind,
gives air to flesh
and hunger to thoughts.
She’s always the lover to catch him
looking over her shoulder
to catch the light trot of some sandals.

The swing of a pirate’s hook in her back,
and then to skip across the water’s top
dressed in red sequins
and to swing from rafters
with Cad Lowlife absent.
This is no fun at all.
Please make real juicy squeezes
with whatever wisdom you can get a hold of,
make a list of all your regrets and burn them,
then make a list of all your discarded containers of alligator meat
and categorize them by cosmic weight
and watermelon compliments
directed away from the southeast trade-winds
and the purple eye,
then shed coats of worry
and sandals of angst
so you can tiptoe barefoot,
be bright, cherry and glad
for the day’s shorten and the night’s lengthen
while the stars slither through the dark
into the dregs of the last scheduled subway train
blowing their own whistle (which they call a pipe),
and excite me for that short moment,
until I see it,
which causes me to decide to discard the past
with one foot in front of the other
and a blind eye,
but with joya, joya, joya, joya, joya,joya, joya, joya
slinging clubs ineptly
and with which I shoot myself in the ass
at the Io Dining Room
and take three tequila enemas
mixed with ulcerated screams
that crawl through
the unrelenting choir of chickens.
“Yah yah! So’s your old man!” they cluck
while taunting me with their cracking claws and dulled beaks.
Again I write something on this piece of paper
that passed by two weeks ago,
and now I have to repeat
the handwriting improvement course
because I can’t put one word behind the other
in a sacrilegious religion
of dead, damp and deflated blow-up sexdolls
while dying over T.S. Elliot’s
“Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats and Impotent Dogs”
and chasing tails up the sheltered snails’ backs
without taking more than a glaring peek
away from the brutal truth
that clings to your cornea.
So don’t just talk.
Remember that at the edge of the garden,
childhood ends,
that beyond is a microphone
and the threads of my own cancerous carpet lilies
from which I remove the rustling leaves
of several incompetent petals
that have failed to bloom,
and wonder if the soiled shoes
in which I’ve planted my tired feet
will ever come clean.
So now I sit upon the sofa
and try to open
my seventh bottle of beer
(Not that I’m addicted to alcohol.
I simply like it),
while wondering
who swallowed the television.
I know I can hear it,
but what’s it doing buried in the wall?
What noises are blurring,
removing my own existence?
I take a riding stance,
beckoning to all who listen,
“Follow me and I will kill you very well,
but not without meandering
around the protruding shards
of life-ridden remnants
that guard the perimeters
of free-association,
although that’s just a cover
because I don’t want the unknown variables to know
that I think everything matters,
and yet am also blind,
with a shit-stained eye,
that it's hard to breath
or believe in any sense
and that my limbs open up
to the oneness of life.
That which is witnessed,
be it harmony or strife,
the greater the hot, stinging pain,
pain, pain, pain
of being blessed in Venus overshadowed
makes me wonder what would happen
if concrete could be mixed from a solid state.
An aborted fetus at seven weeks and five days,
however very well developed,
charming and artistic,
needs time outside.
Get that into you sideways
with a half-eaten Edseland then ride the elevator to the roof of a very high tower
where sparrows go to cleaning the wedges of your toes
with a hard-bristled purple toothbrush.
Yah, Prince has his own teeth
and Bristol Meyers makes custom knee-pads
upon which only saints can pray
and virgins enter the unholy, holiest of matrimony
to a man who is not but a prawn in the game
of oceanic regurgitation of salt-free words
integrating into floating on a rippling locked door
whose thrown away key keeps the sunshine out
and makes vampires safe for another night.
But I care about vampires of this unending treachery,
though the ever-insatiable hunger
that feeds from within the necrophegial juices
of the lust of Christian vampires
who crave semen milkshakes,
must catch that man
and put him in the insane work section
of the sedated orange segment
of no particular apocalypse
on the horse ride of St. Paul
to his exact Damascus,
while the rest read and envy
the idea of Jesus coming
specifically to the corner store
to buy a pack of cigarettes,
pussy, and wild, wild fuckin’ women to suck his dick.
Nah. Suck my cigarettes,
because addiction by proxy
is the best form of dependence
and vomiting into the stratospheric black-hole
causes inbred psychosis
of the inverted pancreas
of the Anticlimactic Doodah Band
at God’s barn-dance
in the purple leafed clouds
of a Saturday afternoon traipse.
Collapse onto drawn quarters
and& let your skin sink slowly
into dark, warm swallowed ground,
while my mind feeds off its half parts
pulled together by Mickey Mouse fridge magnets
and pale yellow Scotch Tape,
and the swish, swish, swish
of crinoline pants in a too-small space,
stretching for a little black ball on a squash.
Wash your mouth out with soup,
you dirty , bright-yellow cancer sore
of a squeegee-man at the toll gates!     
Ovaries of the infinite
and testes of the particular
give birth to possession of the unclaimable,
which is a scarable invention
to increase the lunar capacity of my eyelids
as they swing in some peculiar eyesight in the dream so far.
Long and hard on the white cliffs
that flow into the ocean of life and liberty
and the pursuit of angel-headed hipstermobiles
that are souped up and ready
for a 1957 ideal of heaven
that rolls through the highway of intention
only to break "I say, don’t be absurd”,
or, “Actually, do me a favour,
just don’t be big and lonesome
and throw your clothes into a heap on the floor.
Drink freshly squeezed orange juice."
When the piss, piss, piss on the edge of the seat
is wet, dewy and in some degrees glistening,
I am not sorry to table any fancy with wit.
I save the wanky for a shit and write:
“Christ is coming! Get ready!
Call Jim, Jim Jones, Jesus Christ’s brother,
the proto-hipster, the pre-preacher,
the man that said, “Yo! Bless ya!”,
and “So brother, let's praise the Big Guy!
Let's go home without our jammies on
and discuss the relative insanity
of a degrading interest
in many languages that are spoken like Espanol!”
I remember que messages like
“Poems are made and fools delight,
but only God makes oak tree blight”,
“Free all the killer whales from captivity”,
“Don’t think”,
“Why are you doing this,
think more of the mummified turnip
in your backstreet driver’s seat
where the navigator’s ruins
support ancient sextants
and rusting harpoon guns
that lie naked on the bow of a fallen tree
in the ashen ruin of a forgotten graveyard
where I wonder if I’m becoming
too commercial in my craft;
if I have sold out.
How much am I getting for this?”
On stilts, he asks me if I feel up to it.
What? Another try at breaking my leg’s eggs?
Margarets Atwood and Laurence, and Peggy Wemmy
part like the words they make as women.
“Try our shirts on”, they say, pinching my nipple.
“We made them ourselves for our beautiful Mafia,
for whom we will climb
the highest toothpaste tube
until the next toothpaste tube comes along.”
Zin zin zi batini zi
baku zubu zim banza
ban zubo baza bubo bamba,
with my semen
I frost this cake
as the tickled pink porcupine
picks his loose tooth
with a tongue-tied,
tie-dyed pubic hair
made from the infinitely endless
overt use of the obscure
and intentionally myopic,
acid induced dyspeptic paraphernalia
of unintentional desires
that assault the irreverent senses
of this material I don’t believe any of.
What are we trying to perpetrate here?
Life and death
and a bottle of lowlife,
bloody motherfuck
with soup to nuts
which you need a spoon to crack
with an undying aim
I amplify specific intentions
into a grossly belligerent assault
on the five dead senses,
for your sick mother’s last dying request.
This is your captain speaking.
This poem is about to implode.
Please empty your pockets
and propagate all your misgivings and misery.
And then Mr. Happy laughed at the lunatic parade
until his head exploded fire, flowers, and fruits.
Mr. Happy laughed at the lunatic parade
until his head exploded fire, flowers, and fruits,
and everyone turned an exquisitely voluptuous shade of indigo.
In the beginning was the word “Ha”,
and then someone decided to correct the spelling
until what remained were the scholarship
and the pimpmanship
of selling bitches to the horny bulls
that roamed the prairies of Alberta
behind the wheels of Nissan Quests.
Well, most of them were rude,
and them shotguns,
really new Canadian Tire shotguns
that were sold to kids reading Charlemagne.
Now there’s nothing worse than a Charlemagne reading on a Saturday afternoon,
while comic books remain sitting against the whirling wind
and while I sit chewing and listening to the introduction of new ideas,
which in olden days we dipped into wine and not sauce.
But the saucy begin eating angry peanut butter
while throwing spare tires out the window
in disregardful of N.A.T.O. species regulations,
and we begin the journey with heads bent down,
giving homage to omnipotent Veeblefesters in all their glory,
while chanting, “Season’s Beatings and a Happy Holocaust!
Free tattoos for everyone
except for the silly little bitches
who ran from New Year’s
into history’s repetitive mantra
about why the corrective experience is too risky,
asks too much of us
and challenges us to retreat
to other times and lives
which live still now,
transgressed, diluted
and confused
by the mists of uncertain time and space!
But as time and space are unknown
yet ever-present,
they are stopped by the overwhelming need
for an insulating womb,
a respite from mundane responsibilities
that are more overwhelming than space and time,
crazy and empty,
yet beautiful
and impossibly infinite.
Conceptualizing the infinite,
the eternal, and life
where we brush our teeth every morn,
imagine the hell.
Genetic progressions
from billions of years of evolution,
delicate variations in temperatures,
and the Boogieman is dead.
They tell me that I used to have memory.
They tell me there are noises in the next room,
but who are you in me and I in you,
each a part of it that knows who,
what, where, why and how things are.
My body will exhume itself
in the wake of a broken glass emission
from a portal of increased desire.
Daddy, don’t touch me there!
Refuse to enter the labyrinth
of casual sex and violence
without a dildo/flashlight
that shines, penetrates,
delves, dives and dines
on the secret black meat
of that reeeeeally evil Smurf,
all contained in a plastic bag reality
of maggotism, laggardism, sliverism
and every other ism all together now:
“We want to be clothed in community
and not drowned by insipid beliefs
into reflections of the mind’s eye
that splinter into a crackhead’s rusty tear-filled needle
leaving only the vapour behind,
the misty energetic footprints of him or her
having been there and having attempted.
But you can only take such poetic words so far
into the words and so far away from the smirks
of self-satisfied cheap suits and cracked shoes,
whose laces would make better sutures than vultures
when they hog the Gumby Bible
and make total pigs of themselves
like the Duke of Orange did
with the orange duck, which was dead.
I mean dolphins who hunt in rivers of aqua-flesh,
their fins ringing with space, eat Peking Duck. Yum!
The birds fly high in the sky
to the ceaseless sun
while the wind blows ripples in the pond
where the ducks, unconnected to the other side
where there is no umbilicus of meaning
because the other side is death.
But the Tibetans have turned death into a theme park,
selling three for a dollar tickets
for rides on “The Sentiment”.
“Sadly like the Natives,
the Aboriginals of all countries
that sell their souls
for what they exactly believe better believe it better!”,
sez The Wholly Juk Quisition.
You better believe it,
yes you batterby leaf fit
or not or else or
our knot of  forgotten spare tires
will haunt the minds
of  emotionally severed schizophrenics
who rub cocaine on their nipples
and wonder how long the last log will burn,
while dreaming of forest fires
ablaze two thousand miles away
in the Grand Poobah’s castle
on the homeside of
a broken mire of remnant spires,
where the advocate conspires
while wheeling a deal from the den
where Big Ben chimes a rhyme
and deflowers a virgin’s child-like innocence
through schizophrenic mind-control
and cosmic band aids
on Shopsies foot-long kosher kike-dogs
that taste so yummy with man-made mayonnaise,
but slip on the choke-hold halfway in
like the virgin male homosexual
who’s just discovered the need of KY Jelly
to lubricate the wheels of creativity,
which roll and take their place
on blank sheets of double-jointed paper
with eyes full of eyes
and tongues intertwined,
duelling in the partnership of hate
in the sunshine death
of psychic discomfort
and rotten skin-wash.
Miss Nude Louisville, Kentucky’s hobby is eating bananas,
but her job is handing out free samples of soy-caviar at the Armageddon Cafe,
where its only three hours and twenty-nine minutes
till the caress of your underwater flame,
which is the luminescent eyeball of your high-school sweetheart
who led you to high-school love-ins, t.v. afternoons
and the sugar of her own armageddon,
as it comes to liberate her cunning.
And then tomorrow to reflect on the pain,
the strawberries, the sap, the loss, lemons for sale,
and the up and down ins and outs of jerkin’ off.
It aint no fuckin' good.
Everything’s for sale in the market of our wares,
like our souls as they fly above the mangoes, dishsoap,
and never ending carnivals of fools,
lost and aimless, in search of truths
that double as laundry detergent
and watermelon slurpees
as they sit by their voluptuous
sparkling new bomb shelters
while my many diseases of mind and body
bore me down, and visions of wet bodies
bone me up to make me wonder
why devotion and stupidity don’t part
like a penny-whore who can’t recognize
the light that darkens my vision
to hide bright truth
from the whole of my turning soul,
which at least can eventually change if it wants to.
Aint that funny? Aint that swell?
Well, if it aint then it's nothing short of miraculous,
and we are all miracles in progress,
ironing lives that make for brutal creases,
and just like a shirt with wrinkles
that can be removed by ironing,
so too the irony of life
will remove our wrinkles.
So why don’t you put some of those ironed curtain sidekick discoveries to use
and build a shuddering bridge from leftovers, an ironing board and the dishwasher.
The water has been cut off just like I have, but I know how to turn myself back on.
I just allow myself to sink into the darkest, slowest movement of talking dirty with Cad Lowlife,
or maybe just get my testicles laminated with the purity of evil
and find myself tied down in a dingy, stinking alley behind a corner store,
where the dogs drag the carcasses of forgotten dreams,
sit down beside them and really start living,
while the quietest boy on the block
comes to see the most beautiful sounds of Tennessee,
which brought tears to his ears and ironically enough, laughter to his Heart.
The lemon pie was peachy, hairy, organically grown
and asking for punishment by whipped cream,
nipple shish kebab
and a side order of sprinkle-dimes
for betting that today
is not only the 4th anniversary
of The Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy at the Art bar,
but also the 50th Anniversary of Tide,
and  the man in the moon is showing his age,
while Venus is still flirting with the endless,
but where’s the surprise in that?
Who is surprised?
That’s what happens when you fuck with the endless,
boring brothers who babble balefully,
but this little secret will remain ours
until the timeless journey
through coitus-interruptus,
of our interrupted souls
mean nothing because Sam is here.
Please forgive me for the fact
that there aren’t enough drunks here.
I think that I drink,
therefore you’re drunk,
but meanwhile my drunk staggers homeward,
spitting broken glass and teeth
that grind beneath a line
of Saturday intentions
which wind away to somewhere
where there is a television
with my face on it,
while I am still paying the cable rates
and though no one can really rate cable anymore,
and even as my face disappears into static noise,
everyone who  has kissed the screen
is screaming at charred bodies
without knowing who is dying.
He lied. It’s true.
Take your pick if you know who you are,
then fuck you and the horse-drawn hearse you came in on
and leave the whores out of it.
I would never want to see the world through your eyes
because your solutions are poor,
but can I have your number
or do you think that I first need to count
each of the miniature marshmallows
that will swallow all digestive systems
in a reversal of nature’s way
towards the releasing of feces
that float away into flat skies
that hang like a lonely,
sunken tapestry of rusty coal etchings
in a simple beginning
that is simply beginning
to get strange.
Earn yer focking keep,
you discombooberated excuse
for the released exhumation
of a half warmed kaiser-bun
that splits to speak about sex
and gives a soft, sparkling glance
to a flower stowed with sunlight.
Little Red Riding Hood
has gone on a murder rampage,
killing Smoky the Bear and Big Ben
and thus ending our childhood belief
in dignity without remorse
and forgotten excuses of the dead.
Yeah, so now we’ll have to get another sensibility
by calling 1-800-YOU-SUCK,
then we’ll die and find out what happens.
If there’s any underwater dancers there
to bring strings of unmeditated wandering around
above suicide’s sewers
as they spew their toxins
into the subconscious Sphinx
of lunatic hopelessness,
while the moon yawns above chimneys
and hypnotizes with deadly accuracy
an impotent schizophrenic janitor
who didn’t dance around naked and insane
while all hyped up on moonbeam injections
of second-hand metaphors,
rewritten as light-speed lullabies
in the third-person, omnipresent,
yet unaware of the implied attraction.
She asked “Do you believe that thoughts are energy?”
But then she asked that to just about anybody
who would not worry,
then she let me into her air-duct
to fall into the liquids of her lust.
The Cunt was prejudiced against me,
so go figure, but still, love is still.
Then she asked “Is love a form of energy?”
“Yes” I answered,
“But love is more specifically
what that energy does
to your  discarded imaginary friend,
whose art had been rejected
by all of the “experts” who are “in the know”,
and who finally died, a starving poet,
screaming for spare change and real emotion,
but turned out to be a small goat,
sucking on your privates
because it thought that you were its mommy.
And we may conclude from this
that life is an oedipal complex,
because Oedipus was in fact, a goat.
So prepare for self destruction
by planetary reduction.
One world order will arise from the ashes,
and we will call it another quiet excuse
for being late, and indifferent
to the forgettable sermons
of schizophrenic ministers
who are desperate for the truth that we all lie about.
Blue-pink truth chords in mosaic fabrications
adorn these institutional walls,
and from down the hall
I see words that I almost choke on,
but they’ll be much uglier words
by the time I spit them out,
wondering, “Where did the ugly fucking words go?”
But they don’t go.
They stay like the engravings on the cave.
But the cave has been hastened out
to a staring place outside a seated daze
where I sit suspended
between two hallucinatory trees,
singing pale intentions
against the refinishing light,
that whispers
like a Chinese water torture,
but in salivating English
from a broken tongue
that was imprisoned
for bad language
but is now out on parole.
Chronic suicidal ideation
has left me emotionally bankrupt
and very, very happy,
so I’ve taken this opportunity
to darn some socks.
I’d been putting it off for months,
until my heels were all time.
To be rich must I be a bitch?
I don’t know,
but I’m trying to grow
into a very real occupation
by visiting
a very high mountainside,
drinking lots of liquids
and rewriting
the Tibetan Book of the Dead in urine.
That would be a very berry good use for juice,
and I could drink it
while watching
a woman on 35 millimetre
pull her intestines out
through her nose
with a pair of rusty forceps
that have been dredged
from the lower ashes
of the holocaust.
So all is knot,
as the Druids sing off key
with pride and raging brotherhood.
after gang-raping Little Red Riding Hood
in the middle of an altar-stage,
set up in a corner phone-booth
near the downtown core
where my bitch is the fast food,
and a nutritious feast
that is slowly consumed
like your face by my stare
as I guzzle you down
like the fluorescent bubblegum slurpees
that the bubblegum girls buy
at the Mac’s Milk store
while watching Denise Donlon
masturbate to Spice Girls records
and astronauts float,
drinking tangy whatchamacallits
that are painstakingly downloaded
from steamroller pressed CDs,
removed from entire inter-generational segments
that are slung along concrete ashes
that spin on cycles of thick, white lotion
that is extracted from ripped saliva glands
that encourage sex with fifteen year old nymphomaniacs
from this floating turd of the cosmos,
who late at night wonder
why they can’t get dates.
“So I may be”,
one of them said,
“But within the silence
I choke out on potatoes
while studying the mating dance
of the anal swallow,
which follows the literary tradition
of  exchanging one trial pony
for a new one that is rarely known
outside these parts,
much in the way that Esperanto
is the universal tongue,
Latin, the dead one,
Chinese, the newcomer,
and all Greek to me.
But people around this neighbourhood
are themselves a language
with assimilated characters
that make like a chalk sidewalk
that is lined with cement,
but which shatters
like the multiply orgasmic fragments
of a borrowed genital illness
like the heart that used to be rock.”.
But that’s not exactly what the women are doing these days.
They tend more to tend bar at the Gladstone,
at least whenever Nick goes to the Athenian mud wrestling matches on the frequent flyer.
But what’s the point asshole?
The point is that we live for conflict
and to fuck with everyone who’s more misdirected.
Misdeeds kill themselves indiscriminately
on the sharp scales of your heart
as it pounds away on my shoulder bone.
Is this how you wanted it to turn out,
or would you have preferred that I walk around in public with naked lips
to distance myself from the things that women are doing these days?
Hey asshole, what the hell are they doing?
Are they getting in line? Are they getting out of line?
I can’t tell how many of you sit or squat
at the Squeegee Kid’s Barbershop and Sex-Change Clinic,
where ambiguously gendered children
are converted into mill-cogwheels
for the rest of their lives
and  forced to tread on huge hamster wheels
to power a test broadcast
that’s been commandeered by the French in Lick, Indiana,
where Larry Bird is buttoning his tie
and beginning a new Life as a disco queen of the night,
ignoring the child that he once held to his breast
because her loveliness blinded him
till he fled in his car
and sank as the moon rose
to spread its kind light over the world.
But what kind of kind light was it,
and for that matter ( if it matters),
what brought  the Indians in
from Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming
and Wounded Knee?
Was it the new banik burger with extra dog
at the Scream Till You Turn Blue Cafe and Undertakers?
Anyway, steal Geronimo’s cadillac
to take us back to where it don’t mean nothin’
unless you say different, and you aint sayin’ shit! Fuckin’ A!
You are a deaf mute playing a muted trumpet
blindfolded until you can play no more
while the music be the food of love,
and we are all poor deluded neurosurgeons
with scalpels on the ends of our arthritic and twisted fingers,
that cut thrills into the nerve ends
of the slipping patience of fortified jello,
the ingredients of which come from a secret recipe
found only under the turned cinder blocks
that have fallen from the lost towers
that used to rise above the now rotting bridges
that had once tried to bridge the gaps of sky
between these words and interlocking tricks
which now begin to look like so much invisible clothing.
Yes, our poetry stinks like a penis
gone off for nothing
and wounded for naught.
Off to the reformatory then,
because translucence is a nun with a hard-on
and there’s work to being reborn
into one more incarnation
of an often reiterated organic pattern.
It’s an experiment that was abandoned by the gods
when they discovered even themselves
to be experimentally unfounded,
and merely used for the disembodiment of souls
from out of the calves of cows
where they had been previously moooooved
back in the days when spirits soared
and the eternal cried from the beauty of it all
in the midst of his self-abuse,
which conjured up the masturbation fantasyof  watching a three-legged hermaphrodite
send seven little buttons down your throat,
where they would be embedded in your guilty gullet
for the purpose of stopping your bile
from surfacing to the surface where surfers surf on the waves of time.
But it surfaces anyway,
while above, the heavens burst open
to spew corruptness from the green bag of God
which falls as rain to splash stains upon my pet horse Pokey,
who in turn struck the waiter with an iron,
causing him to burst into flame
as he stumbled backward into Gumby and melted him,
as well as the womb that had been trying to contain
his almost biblical hatred of schizophrenic weather interrogators
who tend to spread themselves like manure on open wounds
in order to hatch flies that rise up
and pass back through those open holes
to heaven where they grasp the scalpel blades in greeting,
only to raise a perfect collection of mutants
to sell in a pet store supervised as most are, by only the lazy.
By people saturated with an inactivity that is born in the blood and bone.
Now I don’t want to say that people bleeding all over the place is a lyric language.
I would rather say that it’s a sickly debate
between Queen Mab and her lecherous imps
who have been sucking too hard on the fingers of yours truly.
My bloody fingers are speaking the bloody language
of brown sugar, the absence of satisfaction,
and the act of letting it bleed over wild horses,
while they count my wrinkles with a catheter
and expunge from me the Saturday afternoon interviews
with rancid tuna fish
that have been pulsing so sweetly
for so long behind my eyes
and fluttering their small fins against my dick.
“I am not your toy bitch in the sink!”
That’s what I shouted at them
yesterday when it started raining.
I told them that they should go
home to the Himalayas
where their Hunky Dory hummingbirds
could hound them with allegories
like “Oh wise salmon,
you can really tuna guitar,
but time draws the strings from your skin,
walks crow-footed over your body
and then flies away with your hopes!”,
but that wouldn’t happen.
Instead, time stood there in front of me
trembling & crying, “Please!”,
in a speech impedimental spray of spittle
while I was trying to rest by laying down
over one of those warm heat vents
that spew micro sport transmorbid amoeba
out to swim endlessly to fucking nowhere.
These are all facts. Acceptance is optional,
but remember that the truth
evades even the most dog-like
of the three sisters
when they break their eyes
against the rain
with the eagle’s blood
in their hands
and the pain
in their wretched minds
encased in shatter-free glass.
The mess has passed over us
like a car speeding
on life’s wretched highway of fate,
its driver oozing froth
that drifts down through her nylon hose
to butter the best piece of toast in the world.
She says that people who speak continually about rape
are obsessed with powerlessness and powerfulness.
“Rape detecting kits are my business” she says,
“and whenever I see a rapist I get a clitoral hard-on
that just won’t go away
until I bring out my small shining army knife
to make the flesh peel and flake away
from scathed scales and lust.
It’s a circumcision with loan-shark’s interest."
This I must swallow before the cock crows
and the scales stick to infinity collapsing,
which is a stronger urge than before-cum in her face again,
but not as strong as the astrodynamic gardening,
in red belly-button tankards,
of the high screaming sets
she watches while sitting
on that fluorescent couch of hers
that flickers beneath her pudgy digits
as she presses for tunes
to play after full moons
that ride on the voided mind
while circling the endless desire
that business managers have
of wanting to lick and sell
puppy shit to the masses
of exacting peoples
who were brought to our shores
from foreign lands,
new, shiny and lost in a buying frenzy.
Who could have thought
that the light  would freeze
beneath a memory of days
when the night which I tunnel through
to virtue’s dream of ridicule
was terminal and understated
to the extent that the extension of an underestimated ego
that drinks deeply from a bottle of Jim Jones’ poisoned kool-aid
tends to trip over the barbed wire of re-trashed emotions
that sap the life of humanity’s shadows
as they sprawl along trash heaps,
bearing arms that make us weary of the putrefaction
that will eventually become, if not our bodies,
then our waking notions that contain a quest,
the question of which is, “What, oh what is the meaning of it all?”.
The answer is perhaps another beer,
or maybe a casual autopsy of the molested pregnancy of pre-teen Madonnas
with very large industrial strength plastic identities
that they bought very cheaply at “The Fact”,
and who write poems about me
which prove they are not so “industrially strong” after all
as they walk away with images
of “wind on the green lighted sky”.
But being an “asshole”
or “simply stupid”
I should point out
implies no forgiveness,
which is the opiate of the asses,
smoked through  mercury-thermometer-hookahs
that have inverted themselves into their bellybuttons
while said asses hitchhike to Alabama in the deep South,
then trudge through the wilds of Kansas,
and finally make their way to the salt mines of Utah,
where you talk too fuckin’ much about “yada this & yada that”
and go in and out of thin holes
that burst puss from the gaping mind
till you suddenly remember
Frank, Maybel, Me, Tom, Franny Babel,
and other labels and names,
each with their own thick wooden frames
that tilt slightly whenever they’re being viewed by the “touched”.
I am touched by the world as I choose to see it
and furthermore I stand exposed
whenever I touch myself in those places
that are already so familiar
to the million men who worked in Washington last summer,
who called themselves “the Promise Keepers”
and who each had a strange message recorded on their beepers:
“I am home. I just hate you because you won’t shut up
about integers, tetrahedrons,
and all of those other kitchen gadget ideas
that are supposed to aid in the construction
of the three universes
that impinge upon my bank of subconscious actuality
even though I haven’t seen it
since November’s rash wash
of covert, laser-cleaned Hollywood smiles,
and so what if they have karaoke in Hell,
and you have to sing when she smiles
so beautifully that there’s nothing left
of what was Baba-Baba between 1962 and 1998.
I got electrocuted tonight like so many others before me,
from Grace Kelly to Marilyn Monroe,
who was murdered by the popebecause she was about to give birth
to the third coming of the Billiard Ball Express Lane,
which would have shiftsiftingly screeted up the chimney
with a “Yo ho ho, you silverfish might like to love me!”,
and coming off the billiard ball express lane is a trying experience,
except that billiard ball causality,
in conjunction with humanity,
eradicates the means of expression
if repeated over five million iterations, so there.
I jumped at your voltage, but this was not my day.
Yes, think again, Cad, because the night has just started,
the play has just begun,
and the hog just busted through his sty
to predict  what you will buy
and to begin to put an end to the business
of feeding cats and raccoons
that shit bricks in my atticand then fall into a green and blue recycle box
full of half-formed fur balls
that the Miss Kitties of their time
would develop a colossal envy for,
but that couldn’t compare to a woman
with post nasal drip who suffers
from the more common form of penis envy
which is easily identified by a bogus overcompensation
for really wanting to heal the relationship with her father,
who was a spider-souled, amber skinned highwayman
who often felt his thighs to look for extra flesh and cellulite
which she would break off and exchange
for the Man from Glad with ketchup stains on his crotch.
But this doesn’t really make a difference
when you’re dying to destroy
the masquerading, bulbous, two-headed freaks of nature
with great streaks of puss emanating from their sores,
 who erased most of my sentence last time.
Now is the time for all good things to come to an end
so that bad things may begin.
It was so, it was so good when she wore my shirts,
that I had no recourse when she said she only had,
“Sweet milk of creamy peach”,
and “Come this way for candy bars or curry cones”.
I was drunk with the water wasting voices
of our ambidextrous escapades
that survived even without the hope
that freedom holds an answer
in extreme limitations of winter.
The handcuffs with which I’d bound her
froze to the pole behind the house
that teetered on the edge of the cliff,
and I was caught two-handed
as I fumbled for a foothold
in the slime without a witness.
But nowhere is home without a witness
to Boo Blue Burberry,
sand writing beneath the shine
of fluorescent onions
whose tail-feathers make me sneeze,
“Atishoo!”.
A joke and a smile, then we can forget,
because a smile is just a frown
that’s been tortured by expectations
into a wire cage skeleton
on which all hope rests.
The next version of reality
falls through the sewer grates
of the crumbled citadel of marbled giraffes
who dance simply for the joy of it
while singing their warbling songs
of love, death, and hope.
They dance freely
in the centred castle
that is painted as floridly as butterfly wings,
buttressed by expectations
and ambitions for longer things,
such as greater sensibilities,
and consciousness of the dreams that may be realized,
yet not quite sanitized
with the proper proportions of ice,
napalm chewing gum and giant spit,
which smells like the truth,
stale as my soggy pale amber drink.
On a red coaster, while lost in thought
I saw in the tunnel of my mind a terrible sight
that crawled into my consciousness.
I realized that I was numb with the truths of love
and that the thaw would be too terrible to endure alone.
I gasped for air, hungry for life
and burning with a fever of desire that seemed unquenchable,
but which culminated in a sky-blue sky,
which I knew was waiting for me to die
so as to end the days of it’s silky sinister dance
towards a guilty horizon
that is bereft of sparks
and everything else
except a stark, lifeless mall
that stands like a truncated attempt
to spread Babylonian peanut butter
on a bun found in a bin
beneath the subterranean levels of my mind,
where each level crushes the other.
I cried out the words of some mysterious song.
I tried to laugh, sing and dance
but the laugh wouldn’t come,
so I began to float on a sway
and went away to sow the sky with nausea
for the future harvest
of a cosmic carnival
of binging and purging
before an audience of sweaty Scythians
who will chant in strange tongues
as we all shave our legs
and put on fishnets for our pimps
who hiss, spit and then draw up documents
declaring that all hippopotami
must conceive of their alternate identities
before entering the secular sphere
that balances on the end of the world
on a blanket of hot ice
over a chasm of utmost peace
that is based on the steamy realization
that the aliens are coming
to fog out the clouds in our minds
while the hot ice-age on our tender skin
hardens our nipples and we wonder,
“Why, why, why?”
This thought escaped me,
so I picked up my cat.
However, he denied my existential meanderings
and only offered in their place an earthbound idol
who swam in the cyanide mist
of unspoken emotional bliss
that twisted my hidden meaning into a reality
that kissed my shadow and whispered,
“Hey Joe, shoulder your ‘I’ to the windy pathway
of/to reason #2, you toad beech-skate
of saurian descent and simian dominance.
Travel forward till the fever strips
your heart, soul and body to the bone!”,
and then it tried to rip up my skirt.
There was no discrepancy in that hell-hole
to hold me in my horniness.
“Well, good sir”, I told it,“That would be the button.
Open my shirt. Yes, that’s right.
I’m glad you still remember how to unbutton a woman’s shirt.
However, dear sir, it would seem
that you are unfamiliar with  how to proceed further.
Can you still proceed? Well then,
try deciphering, ‘#’, ‘?’, ‘@’ & ‘!’, for a change,
whch happen to be the four names of princes
that rule the untended bowels of broken brains
that pour out in the endless twinkling
that is the power of mind-potential
as it cruises into heart and soul.
“But my Body is not good enough for you,
so how about those blue jays
that fly a cloud of acid to your lips for your trips.”
I don’t claim to know what this means.
I’m not that cool it seems.
But cool or not; cool or hot,
I’ve bought into the sewer whispers
of the one who waits for the coming
of the six maidens, both wise and solemn
and clothed in robes so sheer
as to rob the inspiration of any need.
to create little animals
from the flesh of my overlapping dreams,
which are a dish devoured, then consumed
and finally destroyed by the next dream.
So I begin another crusade.
Another empty vacuous voyage
to a destination of trances
that lift the food of the gods
towards the mushroom
that blooms beneath the moon
in her arcane garden
to offer magick tears of lixigence
in lieu of her travels with the sun,
where deep down,
super slick silver worms
fly beneath it’s crust
to hurl sheep fuckin’ puke in her face
as she wears her pyjamas of lace,
smokes his weed with coke
and her trip picks up it’s paranoiac pace
over the cement sandals
that were once worn by the son of a rock weaver
who drained Saturday afternoon
into each Sunday morning
with his hands outstretched
to the brightening sky
to mourn the death of stars
and the loss of his moon melody.
Yet the sad hopefulness
carries on to Monday morning
where it finds a new way to hide crucifixes
that like broken teeth
can’t bite off more than they can chew of their cods,
and  in another scene
where the Light is not seen
and the shimmer of everything
is like the realized/idealized memory
of my own unconscious eidolon,
you must speak before they steal your mind,
wipe your slate clean and refill it
with the rejected chalk dust from erasers
pounded by non-teacher’s pets
who were kept after life
to explain the unsold mysteries
of the endless elementals
who went wildly into braquish fyres
while heaping onto the mould
a pittance to eat on the floor or ceiling,
or with which to turn the wrench
that opens the bolts of fragmented time
in which we make our marks
by speaking “truths” such as they are
from within the confines
of our untruthful reality
that hangs above a map-like surface
that we call Silly Putty
for slapping onto lies and calling them truth.
So fuck the false idols of all who pretend
that blood red divides what oceans can’t join,
because oceans are the cheapest
of all the glues one can purchase
in the cosmic candy store’s cartoon
of reddening awareness that forever tempts
but never leads you drunk into the fucking nothingness
of bloody ocean magnitude,
and get thee to a bowling alley
where you can suck gobstoppers
without chewing them, but rather swallowing them
whole in their secret sauce,
thus  remaining unfulfilled
and aching for the proper measure
of sugar and texture in your mouth
until you vanish into plastic wrappers
and bubble-gum filled with the last of your innocence
that glistens in the white light
of misunderstood enlightenment
where you dream of Bill Clinton
discussing the idea that society’s to blame
for it’s callous indifference
to God’s ambidextrous identity crisis
that lines up along a self-contained passageway
which leads from chaos to that resplendent spot in the sun
where all the pouting pathways meet,
and where Aries lives as a little acorn in a mighty oak tree
while all of the supernovas explode
deep inside of mother nature’s avocado-dip-smelling
orgasmic chasm of chitting and chatting
in florid expressions that are tinted
by prison shades of rose
and which water her garden
of anal Andy Griffith clonesthat Ant Bee is baking
in the interstellar correction oven
on the side of a leg of lamb
that’s roasting in the heat
of this Orgasmorg sidebar.
Alphabet your britches
I was going to write something
but I didn’t know I was supposed to,
so suppose you and me
wonder as we wander
and pass it on
like a stampede of lost thoughts
that pace the room
while I sit confused
and unable to control my wandering mind
as it races, invents, ponders, negates & questions.
It’s happening. Time’s passing
and I sit watching,
unable to control or stop it
as I watch my life slipping
beneath a stampede
that like a stampede
of stampeding stamps
under time’s tongue,
must taste like the small breasts
of young women with small breasts.
Mubutu! Mubutu! Mubutu! Sese seko!
Gingal-galley an’a walla walla bing-bong! Say hey!
This means, “I think I just wet my pants!”,
and this is something that always happens when I eat onions.
In those cases my bread gets wetter than a raining monarch
with a crown of frozen urine
sitting on the hot sun of his imaginary fantasy
as he pumps an inflatable Harlequin Romance
until it bursts into bloom by the third chapter:
“The hulking congressman/wrestler rode in on a red sleigh, pulled by seven tiny reindeer.
Then he broke out in song in rhyming couplets and bailed",
until the hypocritically correct speckled bottle
of Phillips Milk of Magnesia
caused him to refuse to acknowledge
the rampant 3-way split of time, space and reality
because nothing is real
except the fat, three-breasted stripper
with the big strap-on clit
they’d given her
three days after a Meccano erection
that had been bolted to a bar-stool
began to promote himself
with a Bible and a French tickler
in hopes of getting
the back of the stripper
up against the bamboo moon
so he could relieve her
of her obsolete boob,
even though he was not a breast man,
but rather a vagina man
on a quest for a woman with two clitori
that clash together so noisily
as to shake the walls of hell’s supermarket,
where the slogan reads,
‘It’s mainly because of the puss pockets
that leak into the cartons marked,
“Incendiary Attitudes"
caught in circulating half-notes
that ride on long wires
that burn to illuminate drunken brawls
that stem from the obsessive compulsive pleasure withdrawal
of a rabid god that we had to put down with a poison dart
because he was wiping himself with a sewer rat
and throwing wild, frantic parties
in mist filled forests and subterranean caves
where sorcerers evoked mysteries
of oratoric thaumaturgy by singing and ringing:
three long and one short.He picked up the phone
just to eavesdrop
on the internal dialogue
of some half realized godling
on his way to fulfilling
a fabricated apology
to all those who received before
and then forwarded the alternative version
in the form of narcoleptic seizures,
which are the living end,
but he realized that from the beginning
of this fucking night of the eating
of that which will be remembered
by the deadly impish prisoner
who always promised to stick his thing up
your aspirations of fame and dismembermentsuch as they have given you in their spectre-reading
of the yellow bird that flies into the Plexiglas windows
above washed black sewers that stink of wicked flowers
and bounces off to attain higher accidents,
with it’s wings straining against all the biting memories
that are wedged between the veils of flesh
and the heavy bone that was responsible
for bouncing babies between the aching bodies
of lustful flat tires that turn to crank out the dreams
of Christmases past and Easter mornings of the future,
while good tidings of comfort and joy still linger
on the next reason for a celebration
of the meaning of horseradish pie
squared to the power
of three-breasted, four-balled hermaphrodites
with latent speech impediments
that spring out of their vacant holes
into an oblivion
where the new emptiness
fills itself obligingly
with whatever useless trifles
that may spill from the minds
of we who search and wonder
where our blatant obscurity drifted to
while we were basking in the warmth
of our frozen minds
or wandering via flypaper telegrams
towards paltry anagrams
in a reverse field of daisies
that blink through inconsequentially telepathic inter-office memos
without any particular purpose
other than to beautify the porpoises
that swim the ocean of freedom
for the sake of love,
liberty and the pursuit of slap-happiness,
some of whom falling short
due to a lack of ineptitude
in the face of opposition.
This is something that one shouldn’t do.
One should rather aspire to things and activities
that are bigger than a bread-pudding-headed,
doe-eyed, spring-boxed steward
for the Downtown Whorehouse Keeper’s Union
when he’s counting the take of the day in verse
to the melody of the school song of the red herrings
that swim through the stream of conch shell’s nestsuntil the broken glass jewels are washed
into the ebb of cosmic tortoise-time platitudes
that afflict the tide that runs forbidden to the sun
where it is lashed onto the deck of a forgotten barge
that runs over the sea ooze
that foams above forgeries
that swim from the lucid, liquor-licked lips of love’s euphoric nastiness
as it begs forgiveness from within
despite the anger from beyond the intergalactic stellar system,
and so on and so forth until it arrives at  orgasm after orgasm, after orgasm
with no one around for miles and miles of drug addicts dying
to be vilified to the conundrumof whimsical backhanded pool players
who design stellar pocketbooks
out of leather made from fright
they got from live morgues
where time management decays
into all of our lost selves
that we’ve forgotten
but have not been unremembered by others, no.
And so the left-handed path
rises frostily before time itself.
I already knew that.
And out of the window all concept of brain
flies away in a beautiful blue balloon
strung high on electric cords
away into the far off distance
with less brain than the good lord gave the piss-ants
and moxie far beyond it’s mental means.
Then, all of a sudden it happens:
the subway turnstiles take control
of the revolutions of the world
to create animated animated stegosaurian playthings
that wriggle like abandoned stares
as they desperately try to catch the dervish
before he expels enough gas to clear the tunnel
and to rise to the surface where it all happened:
The endearment of the roman candles of experience
to the awestruck crowd,
which, post hoc ergo proctor hoc nee nordi,
from their vantage point in the ditch of lost ravens
cares not for the guilt of lost pain
in the absence of masquerading midgets
who would normally set fire
to the long, flowing dresses
of the nuns at the Gladstone,
where everybody knows your name
and not your dick-sized harmonica holder.
Disharmonically, they would dance on the nun’s tiaras,
even though they weren’t on tiara-firma
or even firm breasts
on which to make psychic imprints
on their veil of thundering hooves
that override the trailing aphorisms
until everyone stops repeating past experiences
and gags on the sunlight.
And all would be blocked out
by the harsh glare of that distant sun
and all that it encompasses,
such as being alone.
The Dervish asks himself to leave
as the noise of the crowd is quite, you know.
But he can’t,
so he settles instead on masturbating
to the image of his uncle Steve,
who had quite a cock on him for a fucking commie.
A now through the portal of his heart
his lips pucker
and he reaches like a child on tiptoes
wishing for a night as beautiful
as one night with Steve,
with the silence of the world beckoning.
like a blast of heat from a shot of licorice whiskey
thrown into the heart-blind eyes of a towering angel
who waits to make sweet tranquility
in the softness of clouds.
Then all of a sudden a dog stops to sniff
at the base of a nearby barren tree
and all of it’s memories fall like acorns do
when the sun transfuses into autumn tears
that fall like crystalline reminders of crippled pigeons
on the lawn where spiders circle moonbeams
like gymnastic mice
round a ring of gossamer direction
written on an unlikely gutter
of frayed stars
above an arch of cruise missiles
exploding into parodies
of sundials in the shade
and ending on this singular thought:
Such strange words to be written on a scrap of paper
in a room full of scattered thoughts
and dreams due to the gods of the worms
that wriggle like amputee stripperson the stages of the cross
that contain each a passion play
in single-cell animation
about motionless hyperactive motion doctors
who maintain a jealous distance
from the sheer beauty of living,
which can be taken in oral doses
so ugly that all their extremities
would immediately turn invisible
and whisper-forgotten
like angels in books on bestseller lists
that are bought by a still non-believing public
who could not conceive of anything decent
besides how to move in circles,
think of fluttering T.T.C. transfers,
and of how the night sometimes surprises.
To think I thought I saw you once in your smiling light,
and whenever I think back on that day I smile as well.
Maybe you were thinking of glossy, choked antics
and seventy-five kisses from a Mafia Don
Valley expressway
that trails into a suburban conspiracy at sub-light speed
under the grinding toothless bite of your criticism
as it tries to contemplate the bland complacency
with which you wholeheartedly
or wholehandedly embraced me
as it all faded away into glimpses of the past
that are no longer a reality, but are merely real.
But what is real, and what is fantastic?
Sometimes I can’t judge,
even though I’ve got so much judgment
I’m almost getting a coma,
or is it just the exclamation
at the end of my understated madness
as it tries to escape
into a counter-revolution
of a magnitude not recently seen on earth.
One that will tear asunder
the foundations of our known world,
which world is out of this world you nutty boy,
so crack a joke wide open
instead of giving me head,
seventy-five kisses,
checking the fluids,
and charging the battery
to jump-start me with a Black & Decker vibrator.
So who’s got cables?
I can’t seem to trans-channel CITY T.V. anymore
by way of sub-dermal light-speed
sidestepping batteries of four-dimensional latitudes
that none can measure around.
We are the survivors.
The only ones who’ve really seen the sun,
felt the sting
and been kissed by the rainbows
and we are sick and tired
of having our lives commercialized
by therapists of the soul-stealing,
gut-wrenching graffiti giraffes
of Hip-Hop Montreal,
which is so Hip-hop that it is the middle finger
to the art world’s ivory tower museums.
A writer tells about how at the zoo
maybe the bars are to keep the humans
away from the animals
having more fun with morphine
in their veins or their future,
the tracks concealed
within the shapes of hope, glory
and all of the other colours
that may speak and be seen.
But why does it always come back to the zoo?
Maybe it’s because we are all fucking animals,
but guys like me only do that on Sundays
because it’s the only time I can escape the slavery
of mentioning my ex’s nine-inch cock.
Never have there been so few with so little
of nothing more than seventy-five kisses owing
and no love in their hearts.
But maybe fulfillment lies in my transgender experience
of liking to fly and laugh with you,
because it makes me melt
and wonder what lies beyond
these blanketed miles of open concrete
with their yawning urban sprawl.
Perhaps all the closeted housewives
are having affairs left and right
to prove nothing
other than the fact that able bodied ambidextrous women
are out there making it and baking mud cakes
for Mesopotamian archaeologists
with big trowels and undersized sieves,
who loose their bowels over a brown horizon
to drop dirty rain from a rainbow highlighted heaven.
But colours glow in the dark ages
and dead puppies never lie to children
in a cool city like Toronto where everything makes sense,
and Mel Lastman calls his soul “Marilyn”,
as in “Where’d you get the new slacks dear?”,
and his soul smiles “As I live and breathe,
you are my artificial lung
because the smell of bread and sugar
makes me vomit happiness
into the rectum of this city
where even vomit is sensibly dressed
in a smart little two-piece Chanel number
with the most darling double-breasted neckline
with a circular undertow leading down to breasts made of silicone
on a body created for fantasy and pleasure by the hands of a plastic surgeon.
The sweat drips down from Mel’s brow as his hands wound the faux forms
of the alternative flavours of inbred psychic galaxies
thirsting in desperation for a real emotion.
At the very least they could be thrown a morsel of guilt,
since they have to be pimped out for money and love.
That sick, diseased, petty humanoid jelly-mold for an alien turd with poor mental hygiene
nevertheless has seventy-five kisses binding him
to the few millions left who are not sick of being human;
who have their deities
and carry them out on weekends
on leashes and on crosses
that confine them from marrying the human soul
into a frantic sixty-nine of sexual lust
because they make love so passionately,
so tenderly and so quickly
that a cool Blues note blows
as if from a virgin cock
right through the face of oblivious separate bills.
The food is great if you can find it,
but there’s no place to get any food
around seventy-five kisses worth of diabetic dreams
that we tear and pour into
the Valley of Night where we’ll drown
in the dyspeptic and discreteparenthetic mistreatments
of the spiral extensions
of underestimated children
who emerge sideways out of one canal of nothing
and go back into another without passing “Go” or the cross,
except for this one child
who salivates as I bend forward
and such harassment brings tears to my eyes
and shatters my soul
with a three-headed motor-propeller camera,
and I know at this moment
that I have entered the age of the monitored,
even though the lenses see nothing
but the filtered sheen of a mud-born abortus
that squirms because http//www has slid into it’s brain lobe
and caused an incredible pain of longing
for something it has never known:
the reception of a really good back rub
from either Our Tenth Lady of the Seventy-Five Kisses
or from that other lover of the Dark Night,
the one who visits him in his deepest dreams
and wishes for love to be a universally worn
sweet passion for undergarments
hanging from coat-hanger toasters
amongst sun-kissed flora that garnish
a thirty-four ounce Kansas City steak
bought by a friend of a friend of mine
who had this amazing light eyed resistance
to ordinary light green eyes
that were made for crying
in the backyard behind the flowers
that always gave me a sense of the reality of cement.
However, this diamond drill bit
will penetrate the virginia of my whore
before she holds me in her electric stare
with eyes that drill my brain
to orgasms of the cloud-like internal organs,
and I’m ready to be excised
with a dull razor in the hands
of a dull man who leads the blade
beneath the blistering skin dunes
that blow past the neural tissues
that run beneath the eyes
of those who simply lack the time of day
and are lost in an all pervading darkness
that makes it impossible for them to go on,
though they must continue
into the city of darkness
where ions tear through the bastions
to overcome the resistance
of assembling barbed wire minds
that have pricks on the brain
like a crown of thorns
embossed into the mud
of the stagnant volcanic ash there,
beneath which bubbles
eons of suppressed molten anger
that squeezes through the lumpen pores
and down the split spines
of all the cats that drowned there
in barrels of sin
while the suffering masochists did lunch
and I was having trouble
finding a thread of continuity
because I was thinking too much
about the evening I’d spent
earlier that day in heaven.
I was that fucking righteous and indignant
about the death of the daytime drama,
“Children Emulating Light”,
and started casting bones
to read from the rubble
of ecstatic illusions,
filling mushrooms with dust
and other porcelain pleasures,
but did nothing like the giving
of the sweetest seventy-five kisses
that I’d given him half on his face
and half elsewhere.
Shh! Can you hear the sound
of our millennial passion
as we ask, “Why to, Kay?
Why instead not 3 or more?
But do the math first,
then after math the aftershock of tangents.
Watch for the sins of cousins,
but be afraid for their privates
in the face of razorblade exceptions
to the rules of infamy
that are excreted by assholes
lined up like cannons in a row,
with hammers on their shoes
until the eggshells they walk upon
turn to A-bombs on the A-train
that goes to Alphabet City
where everyone is AC/DC
and "amen" is all we can say
in a life whose pageantry is the funeral of God.
But what’s all the brain drain
about this place at an old corner of Queen street?
I hope it can be kissed seven or five
or even seventy-five times
and hugged as well by the bitches
who scrawled the bas-relief on God’s balls,
inscripted with the words:
“Have a Coke and a smile
and shut the door before you leave
or else it will leave a bad taste in the back of time”,
because cruelty calls for those seventy-five kisses
and leaves my own words at a loss.
As for me, you dumb fuck,
love starts out Gothic
and ends up comedic,
because before me I can see
the man who possesses my soul
and takes me whole and complete,
without judgment as far as the world is concerned,
because the world only knows
how to judge those who don’t know how to judge themselves,
and Natalka never came.
No wonder she never arrived
at a vague semblance
of an insignificant perception of self
that sets itself as an echo
and repeats  with a tempo
that’s in sync with the pounding heart-beat
and the river rush of blood
as it roars inside us
like a vinegar and hydrochloric acid enema,
because a movie star will never worry
about the shit that he or she might stir up
with the silver spoon they shove up
those noses they keep planning
and rethinking both socially and professionally.
Thinking of how they’ll spend
the rest of their summer vacation
humping the inside greasy snatch
of a whore on steroids or Queen street
that doesn’t always have stars to face me
and neither do you.
Oh well, what the halo,
Montezuma is playing pick-up stick-ball on Wall street
while the mercury rises up a new skyscraper
made of flesh and bullets
and an eastern seaboard heatwave
overcomes your guilt ridden desire for ice cream,
your eyeballs stick to your skin
to leave salt marks like a trail of tiny beetles
all over me to the beat of my old gramophone
with it’s heart of darkness shining
in a pool of oily soup
at the bottom of a cracked Holy Grail
that I’ve raised in a toast to myself.
I had her lips wrapped around my knob
and that delicious friction turned into a razor
that shaved me to a fine
harmoniously underdeveloped end,
my only friend till the end
had been sentenced to life imprisonment
in time and space inside of me
where I share my stars
with all of the heavens and hells,
forever and ever, though only in sections
and only after each time I deposit
a token and pass through the turnstiles
to sing a song in memory
of the angry young man who gave
seventy-five kisses to his own reflection
in exchange for another fluffernutter sandwich
that would swim up his stream of peristalsis
like the salmon sandwich
with the side of beef
I was delivering up her pretty cunt,
while she moaned, “Yes sir!”,
and touched the floor with her nose
and I saluted her flag
as it flapped at half mast up my shaft
in a storm that rained people and fish
that slid down the back of my yellow raincoat
and into my galoshes,
which were yellow as well,
and there they remained
to soak up the grease from the street
that rained upward to the yellow rooftops
where it washed the floor of my subconscious,
which knows me to be two people:
one a murderer and the other the Bro’
who will fight the battle of the millennia
just to see it live on  bread and water
for fourty days of solitary confinement
in the murky depths of your unmade bed
until it is saved by a passerby
bye-bye Boogieman
who plucks smoking feathers
from a chicken sandwich
for 18 months at a time.
But unfortunately people seldom ever
wear the gloves they’ve knitted
when they are always and ever on the lookout
for fresh serials to kill with kindness
and mirth that caves in like an iceberg with its cracking death
as the knife digs deeper into it’s spine
where seventy five electrical kisses
electrocute the green veins
of Godzilla’s testicles
while he hangs off of the square root
of three hundred and sixty-five
divided by two “eh?”
over twelve bee times (xytoo) times Sin,
the answer to which is mine.
Never give a starving man a rubber sandwich
without seventy-five kisses to go with it.
The lonely one waits
in the shade of a sycamore
for his destiny to be renovated.
There is so much to do:
the stucco, the nails,
the fixtures, the crucifix,
the suction cupped replica
of the sacred bleeding heart of Quill
and then the breaking apart
of the billiard balls of purpose,
followed by sitting at the bar
after a long hot tumble between the sheets
as if to compliment a job well done,
while waiting for my reward of heaven
plus seventy-five kisses
from the mouths of angels.

“Sheesh!”, he says, overturned by metaphor,
“I’d be ready and willin’ ta rassle with the biggest of ya
if ya’d only do me a favour and unzip my dance card
so’s you could swing me a rubber raincoat/babydoll for just a little while.
Ich bin ein schnitzelkopf for you baby.
Sock it to your mother, ‘cause only she can feel your pain.
Oh shit, I forgot my medication! What’s wrong with me?
The regret of self pity gives birth to an understanding
that a certain mind can’t handle
and reverts to the tenth anniversary
of something terrible that happened
to someone else.
I am innocent. Innocent I tell you! I only watched.
I did not participate in the hazing of freshmen angels
at the rotunda of the city as fat as a calf
before he becomes veal scallopini in the trattoria around my neck,
and then falls down the spout of the almighty duck
who swims far away and beyond the tragic consequences
of opposites that see-saw up and down, back and forth in time, round and round in space.
And then fucking what?
They end up without any momentum to circumvent the overwrought irony
that presses it’s knows against the pain of glass eyes without irises
through which they can witness a fuck anytime
because it’s an implement of omnipotent voyeurism on a higher plane of insanity
that exists in corners of the mind that rock back and forth gently but severely
until after a protracted swelling begins,
our hero, the Pink Man spits out his ever powerful ammonia
and a new era of greatness begins:
no war or television,
just orgasms and Chinese buffets
which invade the stomachin a continuous stream of screaming Olympic athletes,
all beside themselves, juxtaposed
and holographically inserted
between the neural slices of time,
which will not survive it’s own biodegradable sands
in the hourglass of cross-dressing
which oversees the entertainment zone playdium mind-fuck
where the computers know your name
and the toasters report the weather,
and the weather is always as hot as seventy-five kisses
being planted on a face that’s never been kissed,
and that face is Ricky Martin’s.
Then the Nazigoofqueer arrives
with his or her parading entourage of midgets in leisure suits,
playing accordion with those cut-off leather gloves
that his or her long fingernails slip through,
producing a rasping metallic sound on the ivory keys.
Falling to the current craze
of bungee jumping
while smoking sausages
explode like torpedoes
that sound like silencers.
Then when the cards are shuffled
and the deck is cast,
the sausages are served
on a poker table
by Gypsy Jew Jerkoff
and his Gypsy Jew Jerkoffs
and we almost seem disturbed
or something similar to that
in a sidelong sort of defective projection
of our faces in a rear-view mirror
that reflects back to the past present or the past future.
What the hell’s the difference anyway
when it’s really your face in the rear-view mirror,
while your brain in the refrigerator
is crying out for redemption
and your mind is off somewhere else
truly seeking it through the suffering of your soul.
So seek not a rhyme in time,
no matter how sublime it seems.
Instead ingest a beer with lime
and a touch of cyanide
for a happy suicide
without a hope in hell
of a sad resurrection
or even a decent erection
when all that’s done is said and done,
or as is sometimes the case,
though rarely,
done without being said,
as is the case with Why Jew “K”
on the Seminternet,
which doesn’t holocaust a penny
to swim through its gates
of your despair
and tunnel to your lips
that snare potential contact
on exiting exciting regions
in the frustrated she-wulf’s inner sanctum
where blue is green and well
and minds shed their scales like serpents
beyond strip-tease dancers on cold toilet seats
that when the heel of my shoe reaches the cushion
and all of the paper is a torn terry cloth butterfly robe
that rolls down in folds on the garment skin chiffon
and is picked up again and stuck on the wall.
“Don’t stand by the wall over fifteen minutes”,
so I wandered into a head-space of mediocrity.
The man with the drunk didn’t tell me I couldn’t,
but it was not enough.
Drunken coordination disorder man:
the poor bastard child of a flustered deity
whose family tree includes pimps, hookers and pancakes,
and whose only hope is to hold his breath long enough
until his whole world dissipates into nirvana via Ochema,
after taking a left at the Pearly Gates,
then opening his legs to spread sunshine
through thighs where birds dance
towards the silken wings of the reality of his illusion.
Birds dance towards the silken wings
of the reality of his illusion
while shaking his head rhythmically
 until it appears to be a bobbing cock’s comb
on a turkey vulture’s pate,
dressed in a sharkskin suit.
But there is no drunken coordination disorder
because order is the coordination of the passing myth
of maple chocolate swirl fudge.
Seventy-five kisses for the girl
who carried the trail
for the girl from the place
where her lover bid his head.
She dreamed of olives and oranges,
and for some reason unbeknownst to her
the lingering scent of citrus
always brought back visions
of her first time swimming in the ocean
where she rolled by the lyrics
of a lobster infested recipe
for cum and aurora borealis
in a kosher Chinese restaurant
after having coitus interruptus
on a big plate of blistered feet
that curdle on the palate
whenever they explode
from the lobster bums
because madness has the runs in the family.
I only wish I could file for a patent
on the molecular structure
of that stuff that’s made of stars,
because stars are made of seventy-five kisses
gone supernova on the mouth
of the goddess kissing Adonis
along with multitudes of masses
of Gypsy bands in Italian barbershops
where circumcisions are a dime a centimetre,
and a bargain if bought two for one
at the wholesale slaughter market
where mourners glide into moist orifices
to fall slippery and wet onto my tiny frying pan.
Suddenly a brick struck her head
from a passing Sesna
on its way to the Sue,
so she thought,
“Maybe later I’ll eat,
with murderous intent,
all of the molecules in all of this air,
and then spin it into Naplie!
She’s dark and blue-eyed
with legs that seem to go on forever,
and she presses her firm
hard up the ladder
of corporate spindles
that revolve like bullets
spun from spurting sperm so abundant
that seventy-five kisses aren’t enough
to lick them up or gun them down,
she sends out for Chinese
to wipe up the road to hell
of all those good intentions,
only to find that she’s regurgitated
her high school years once more,
yet continues to fear what she has not begotten
without any sordid harmonica fodder
that doesn’t fit the lips that fold over its music
whenever no one is listening
because the sad cry is piercing
and numbs the senses
until the millennium dimension opens to beg that part;
yes, that part which picks and picks and picks
something that will itch more than the navel orange
and purple fucking none of your beeswax
pig-fucker of a boogerman without a name
because he split his soul
with a barnyard animal he worshipped
for its immunity to dirt,
because dirt is halfway to the grocery store
and a quarter of the way to heaven.
Give me a dull and mindless fart
in the face of the deity we call commerce
to greater facilitate the gaseous fertilization
of a war machine that launders the consciences
of the peace-riddled, pigeon-breasted puff adders
who subtract their hearts from their surroundings.
The biggest problem is that there is no problem.
All the people like to believe in stupidity and the octopus.
How many flatulent shit machines does the system have
to the beginning of accidental arrogance
behind the steel wall of all the piercing eyes.
The theme for tonight was the end of themes-
all themes- even of serendipity.
The thought of heartbreak, the basis of all themes.
Heartbreak and anger and hate
that leads to the reservoir
where opiates blossom
like pubescent Girl Guides
who restrain the natural impulse
of ribald octopi
to ram a sentence
of life imprisonment
into half a second
of pure Japanese comical laughter.
Never have I had the choice
to indulge the whimsical pinkish clouds
that float in my wineglass
and catch so terrifyingly
in my misspent youth
and my predictable discourse
on the nature of adultery
and ripping people off sixty dollar properties,
putting three in a two-room apartment
until they die of cockroach over-dosage
without benefit of life insurance
for their bereaved loved ones wilting unexpectedly
while we went to bed with ice cubes in our pockets
because our eyes would not close and dreams came like Russian Mafia bullets
killing everyone in a ten mile radius of Brooklyn, New York,
where I hung off my bar stool and yelled “Lizards? What lizards?”
I looked at my lawyer and the attendant who was prying for information, and I warned him,
“This man has heart!”
But his heart was still stronger than the simple bugs that pierced my lungs.
His heart was strong because of his job. He worked for Hardcore Action.
I think I’ll kill myself. But then again, it could not be worst than this.
But then yet again, it couldn’t be much better than this.
“This”? You think you know “this”? You don’t know it!
The guy with the cum didn’t know it.
That death will clean,
clean the emptiness of his hollow lie,
will clean the cum,
and the demagogue
will be the satanic reign
of Honest Ed, Mel Lastman,and the rest of Margaret Thatcher’s illegitimate children
who stalk the annals of Toronto’s historic back pages,
carving highways, chip-chipped against blank pages
and empty stares, making me, in curbs of con.
I believe in god and Jesus and my doggone right to fart in bed.
Stick it up yer ear, and about sink faucets: they are god’s belly!
But now I wonder whether or not I actually believe. I mean, what is belief?
Belief is the illusion that to have faith there must be proof.
When there is no right or wrong being faithless is the key to happiness,
as faith only disturbs our natural behaviour but emphasizes our need for order.
Science is based on faith and gives us order just like religion.
But science or religion, the question we keep coming back to is
where is all this leading?
Is the ark floating Archie through an arch
that Betty balances atop her parabolic frontal lobe
until her receding hairline,
blue and brilliant as Jughead’s,
is safely put away.
I didn’t mean to be rude
but my mother didn’t teach me
no goddamned Amy Vanderbilt manners
in no finishing school in Finland
for a finger lickin’ good approximation
of trailer park emancipation
that Dutch people from Connecticut
talk about when they munch on tea biscuits
and gossip watching triple-X movies.
Really? I like movies, but I must say
that it is too bad we’ve lost so many
good porno petit glabahrattliphanibilabbbbbbbrix?!--*?!
Teel a pha bo in Robin Hood’s pants.
He’s big pimpin’ now, so fuck y’all, Motherfuckers!
Now its time for your lexicon
to hasten to a nunnery
before the host has sold out
and the wine has evaporated
to a misty melodic ghost of chords
bent to the stranger’s musical wheel ,
then strummed, stemmed, and strung
with an innocent angel
to violate and channel its divinity
to the bewilderment of audiences
with bent lyrics and off the wall beats
before shrugging your shoulders
with Spawn standing beside you
and you watching him until he reaches down
and squeezes your head
until he hits the pressure points
that make you have an orgasm,
and finally, finally you reach heaven,
until Heaven absolves itself
with a glass of sacramental Chianti
and a nice nip of your liver
skewered inward
and melding your mind
to a mildew-less mould
in some broken fantasy
where I noticed the roll
of transparent shipping tape on the table,
waiting in frustration
because it had no box to seal
and feeling as redundant
as the obsession that perhaps,
and God forgive us, Dr.,
if we knowingly divert our energy,
but as Bukowski says,
“If Green can grease you down to your blanket covers,
you with the microcosm of a city that reflects on a world
that spins faster at an exponential rate
and is populated by retired, gun-toting grocery cashiers
who masturbate while driving drunk
and get their penises caught in their seat-belts
when the airbags burst out of something I have written.”
I love my dick
until the light changes
and then I adjust the gear stick
and my pompadour
and then step on the gas
like it was a lifeline to a nuclear powered orgasm
on its way to a psychically uplifting  event of self-imposed morality
on the wisp of a breeze from eternity
with a story to tell to the peasants there:
“It will never be spring”.
All of a sudden I come across a sprouting seed.
I swirved to avoid it and my car spun out of orbit,
which caused me to fall asleep.
I woke up shaking and spitting blood
and wondering who I was and why I was dying.
Was this my joy, was sitting on the throne of the chancellor?
She had to flush twice so that the big pieces would go down on me
and suck like a fuckin’ vacume,
but I didn’t want that ocean of water to open up
and swallow me like a dead frog,
even though its lips were so luscious
that I just had to add a cupful of Ultra Tide
and some chloroform,
because that mixture before sex
is like swimming through Jello:
Just when you think you’re getting somewhere
you end up massaging your cum all over her beautiful gorgeous tits.
My cock remained hard as she deep throated the rust,
swallowing every last drop till you reach your orgasm,
and as fake as it is,
I still want to believe.
Tell me I’m the man
before you leave
to fuck your boyfriend,
then when you wake up next to him,
I want you to find my eggs,
because they’ve been lost.
When I get them back
I’m going to give them away
to homosexual ninjas
with nuclear powered swords
who’ll take them and shove them
straight up their candy asses,
then they’ll love with such lust,
so basic, so carnal.
Do you love me?
Do you love the asshole you tear?
I fear that I already know the answer.
And now with my stitched and scarred anus,
I now know that I will not fear hell,
because I am there now.
My flesh has only now started
to sear from my bones
before I wake up and realize
that I’m happy to be here.
I had been sleeping for three days
and unfortunately missed the whole tractor pull festival,
which is the main obscenity
at the Young Farmers 4-H Porno Fair
where the marching rabbits
gargle Christmas carols
and show off their bushy little tails.
Yes, rabbits need it too,
for who multiplies pies better than Watership Down
where the bunnies need Rasta Nazis
to consume ganja laced rabbit stew with such a passion
that it often makes them die the next day
like brain cells that caviar pop
and the ideas with them for a little while,
without regression,
or even a post hypnotic snack of deja vu
as delicious as all of those French linens
which you had to face and do in high school
where all of the hellcats on dope, lox and bagels,
with their yellow polka dotted earlobes,
which are the latest in Freak fashion,
gave me a bromo
and stopped being such schmucks
about tractor wheel filo doe
and other such quadrupeds
ungulating in raving, roaring rut,
and rampaging across the Brooklyn Bridge in a pimpmobile,
collecting prostitutes to work the streets along the way.
But what they collected they didn’t expect,
for their fears attacked their souls,
which could not be found,
and their courage drifted away like smoke
when her tits massaged his balls
so that they were supple and bouncy enough
for Michael Jordon to  endorse,
if he were still into endorsements.
Who wants to be a millionaire,
a trillionaire or a Baudelaire?
Well, hands up and give me all your cockroaches
because I haven’t got any
and feel lonely in my bugless dreams.
Please help me!
I am a homeless & whoreless pimp
even though I got all of these hookers
sucking on my sideburns
instead of being out there
making me money
with their web designing.
They are black widows
who inhabit the woodpiles
of Dicky’s disdain
and the prelate’s eclipsed butt,
which has dropped a bit,
but his corset rises to the challenge
in tandem with the stock market shadow report,
which is compiled in the wee hours of the morning
by underfed chimps
with one hand over their adding machines
until they send the thought police
to place them under cardiac arrest.
And as they 4fitted there in their lostness
they sinned no more
or less than anybody else
with half a sardine can full of bubbling brine
and wriggling little alligators
that symbolize a sewer
which is rancidly reminiscent.
of a rancidly reminiscent sewer
that sheds silver scales
like coins from a subterranean slot machine
whenever the local Blue Heron Association cashes in
and manipulates in its own meronic way
by sometimes enlisting the aid of other
waygull defractories
that disseminated semen
wherever they crixed ta
widude koldorood semen
klottu dominas ars longas-vita longas,
Brooklyn in your face.