Sleep in the Snow

I don't want to work but I will

and I will try to be happy.

I didn't want to get up but I did,

I had to take a pee.

But now I can't get back to bed,

I guess I'm just too lazy.

Don't it make you wanna

go to sleep in the snow?

Laziness makes everybody

so damned impatient.

Too lazy to chase a rabbit?

Why don't you throw a stone?

Too lazy to climb a mountain?

Invent a helicopter

that flies to the top so you can go to sleep in the snow.

Oh, don't it make you wanna go to sleep in the snow?

Don't it make you wanna turn away and go?

Diving through a needle to the veins of nowhere?

Hanging on to someone even though

you know

that they don't care?

Too lazy to face the Moment

go out and get a career

and pick the leaf of a company check right from the tree of Power,

from which you dangle by your neckties

( The only sex you'll advertise)

and you can get blessed and magnetized as you rub against the corporate stone.

But it takes a pretty big charge to refrigerate a bed of snow.

Barbershop Surgery on the Cut of Winter

November's harem of haggard trees

cling desperate to the tattered remains

of opulent dresses given them as concubines of June,

while the wind,

that ghostly closet queen,

in its fan-dance of artful thievery,

piece by piece fulfills its erotic desire

to try every one of them on.

The Baboon Heart Rejection, Satellite Maintenance, Princess and the Pea Happy Song

There's a lot

going on

but I'm never really part of it,

though sometimes I might tumble

through a flaw in some bad masonry

while leaning on the wall

that protects some small society

like this one

where I've landed,

splashing in your acid-bloodstream

on this stage

where I wait

to be eaten by your antibodies.

And I love depression.

Its so deep and thick and cool

that at the bottom of its pool

in my depression

I can sleep safe as a pea

beneath a hundred mattresses.

Yes I love depression.

Oh but then some damned princess comes along.

Here I am

all alone

with a multitude of satellites.

To each I give two gifts:

they have solitude to quench their thirsts and social inclinations

for emotional toilet seats.

They're happy

well fed machines:

self cleaning, self polluting,

self repairing, self destroying.

They're almost independent.

But they love depression.

Its so deep and thick and cool

that at the bottom of its pool

in our depression

we can sleep safe as a pea

beneath a hundred mattresses.

Yes, you and everyone of you loves depression.

Oh but then some damned princess comes along.

Watching Mom and Dad Make Love

The surrounding conversations blend into a droning hum,

 that sounds like a distant orchestra of sub-machine guns,

shooting all the broken teeth of a forgotten incantation

into the heart of a war that we call

communication.

Every explanation is a martial strategy

to cross enemy lines and raise our flag in victory.

They'll never shoot until you've put your heart upon the line,

and each slicing bullet is a piece of

someone else's mind.

And each shot smashes the mirror that has given us the twisted view

of our upside-down reflections dangling

opposite the truth.

No, communication is not concerned with brotherly love.

It's a sacred mating ritual

that’s often drenched in blood,

where men will gouge one another with their well-sharpened headdresses

for the chance to dance upon the altars

of the priestesses..

All the forms of communication turn out to be service roads

that fill the event which pumps the fabric of the cosmos,

and is the swinging door for both the death and rebirth of innocence,

which is hinged by the magnetism merging

every cock and cunt.

Every moment is a cross-section of eternity;

a dense, blue form of interconnected infinity

where Nature's sweet vagina is continuously primed by God,

while she exudes the orgasmic spirals

on which we live and love,

in hopes of tuning in upon her trembling excitation,

and his loving, tireless, primal, thrusting,

deep penetration.

But we are tired and ripped and gone and tied by wires to absence

as our sad little spirit-tongues strain to taste the dust specks

left over from the rays that filter down into the thickening dark

of our atmospheric graves, shining from

God's strobing lighthouse cock

each time it rhythmically withdraws from Chaos's veiled vagina

to send sparks flying into some men's minds

and light occasional fire.

Recurring Vision of a Myopic Third Eye

Intravenous

McDonalds:

the restaurant of the future

and the fastest food of all.

Into the blender

go the roaches and rats,

and the world is now a very clean ball.

Suicide

Seven-Eleven:

a delicious hemlock Slurpee.

Free fill-up with

cremation,

a drive-through death for the sick or depressed,

it's now a less

neurotic

nation.

Radio Shack for  amnesiacs:

sweet memories made

to order,

cheap

generic

identities,

some microchips go in the headcheese dip

and hey look ma, no penitentiaries

MTV please empty me,

see me be

in a 3D-O,

virtual

banality,

high-tech sex let me beam you a cheque

so I can dance on hold to your melody,

dance on hold to your malady.

Tropic of Ulcer

Homogenized dreams of exotic lifestyles

are strobing our attentions at the speed of light while

we're drawn into a whirlpool of promises

of brightly plumed and pretty experiences

whose undertows will drag us down a thousand drains,

sucking what breath that’s remaining right out of our wheezing brains.

Well they say:

"Smoke this smoke

and you can have this Girl";

"Drink this drink.

You'll be on top of the World";

"Wear this dress

and you can bag your Man";

"Use this cream

and you'll be younger again."

They'll use Bible illustrations of paradise

to dangle a hot-dog in front of you dressed in a carrot's disguise.

Emptily we gaze at the shimmering light shows

planted round the clock between our foreheads' furrows

until their velvet roots begin to intertwine

with our vanity's veins in a twisted design.

Prosthetics of the ego help us limp away

to an all-expenses-paid imaginary holiday.

Well they say:

"Drive this car

and you'll have sex-appeal";

"Take this pill.

See how much better you feel";

"Buy this scam.

Tony Robbins'll free ya";

"Buy this poem."

Well, there's an idea.

They'll use Bible illustrations of paradise

to dangle a hot-dog in front of you dressed in a carrot's disguise.

Christmas 1979

In the slow

explosion

of morning,

by the restaurant's volcanic light,

I find

in a box

of meteor rocks

an alien-

transvestite.

She is wearing

a mask

she has carefully carved

out of the burning flesh of martyred lust,

and I find myself

wanting this

strange little bird

to be dancing on her knees to my

animal thrust.

But this woman can't get love,

because she got no womb

to catch it in,

and this lady can't be courted

because she aint no lady in the living end.

But I swim in the strangest state

of longing

as she sits pouting

over there,

glaring defiantly

at the clientele

until she stumbles upon my stare.

The waitress

lights up

her cigarette,

and she takes a long sensual drag,

while along with the smoke

through those red, flaming lips I feel my breath is slowly taken away.

But this woman can't get love

because she got no womb

to catch it in,

and this lady can't be courted because she aint no lady,

and in the end

she's like some flightless bird

in a paragrine falcon's dress.

She's exquisite

food

for my fantasies

but my fingers need smoother slopes

to caress.