hyacinth
things that germinate and burst through rock,
growing, with red flowers. and how the rock
holds them down. and how they turn faces
to the stars. and how the wind tastes.
and how it is cold. and how the stars are nothing
but bright salts, chemistry in the sky.
and how the night is a sheath
and i walk through it a knife.
and how the knife is a heart.
and how the heart is a beat.
beat beat. how the heart is a beating.
--
gasping in the sun.
the rate at which the sore runs.
the rate at which the rain
tears the hair apart, strand from strand.
these things are sad, very
sad, and i don't know why:
a frame, pictureless. on a driveway.
in detroit. on sale for ten dollars.
Monday, August 27, 2007
stabbing at honesty, unskillfully, with some sort of dinner knife for children
one day he'll come along
the sun has gone down but not yet the light.
i think in why's and ex's--that epic night
we talked on the porch where the bugs threw themselves
at the light,
that madly uncomfortable breakfast,
slathered in sour cream, stiff and white, men i didn't know
everywhere. i wasn't drunk but i said i had to go.
what i had to do, though, was walk in dark along the path
i'd trod red-hooded with that other wolf,
gathering strange red flowers and watering them.
still seeing you. your hair down and lips lined. your eyes
and voice. the shirt you gave me. things i never had and
knew i'd never have, things i told myself i didn't want and didn't.
but wanted to want them. wanted you to want them.
williams' escaping rose: i twirled the stem.
memory, a leaf:
crush it and smell the deep scent
of autumnal nights.
the sun has gone down but not yet the light.
i think in why's and ex's--that epic night
we talked on the porch where the bugs threw themselves
at the light,
that madly uncomfortable breakfast,
slathered in sour cream, stiff and white, men i didn't know
everywhere. i wasn't drunk but i said i had to go.
what i had to do, though, was walk in dark along the path
i'd trod red-hooded with that other wolf,
gathering strange red flowers and watering them.
still seeing you. your hair down and lips lined. your eyes
and voice. the shirt you gave me. things i never had and
knew i'd never have, things i told myself i didn't want and didn't.
but wanted to want them. wanted you to want them.
williams' escaping rose: i twirled the stem.
memory, a leaf:
crush it and smell the deep scent
of autumnal nights.
Friday, August 24, 2007
little femocentric
proem
watching it spiral red down the toilet and im like, im all,
eew, but eews a blanket statement, a tarapulin for the soul
of the matter.
its a horror movie in the pants. death, rejected life, that is,
heimlichs essence--blood, blood--uprooted, exposed,
outfloooowing, outpoooouring.
its what makes women women. its what makes
lesbians so hard to date: show me a woman without mystery
and ill show you a blind idiot, and itll be you.
im thinking of ridiculous things: footee pajamas, shrimp,
and at the core of me still lingering a font
of mystery. how great we are.
watching it spiral red down the toilet and im like, im all,
eew, but eews a blanket statement, a tarapulin for the soul
of the matter.
its a horror movie in the pants. death, rejected life, that is,
heimlichs essence--blood, blood--uprooted, exposed,
outfloooowing, outpoooouring.
its what makes women women. its what makes
lesbians so hard to date: show me a woman without mystery
and ill show you a blind idiot, and itll be you.
im thinking of ridiculous things: footee pajamas, shrimp,
and at the core of me still lingering a font
of mystery. how great we are.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
freaking yeats
i'm sorry about the emo. i'm hoping to find a new point from which to depart, something in between concepts, utter nonsense, and stain'd lyrics. thus far i don't seem to have managed it...but, hey, not managing things is what i don't not do best!
i mean, i'm not a visionary. i do nothing if not ride the wave. and the wave currently seems to be telling me that emotion, and something representative, is more artistically valid than hiding from crap behind a mountain of words. but is this any valider than other such "artistic" "understandings" i've come to?
in some wierd way i feel like i'm becoming a machine--empathy churns out understanding, understanding churns out poorly chosen words, and the outside crust is made up of some unappetizing conglomerate of ego and fantasy. i mean, my mental lanscape will improve. but how? toward what? slouching, possibly, in the direction of some birthplace, and i don't even know it?
i mean, i'm not a visionary. i do nothing if not ride the wave. and the wave currently seems to be telling me that emotion, and something representative, is more artistically valid than hiding from crap behind a mountain of words. but is this any valider than other such "artistic" "understandings" i've come to?
in some wierd way i feel like i'm becoming a machine--empathy churns out understanding, understanding churns out poorly chosen words, and the outside crust is made up of some unappetizing conglomerate of ego and fantasy. i mean, my mental lanscape will improve. but how? toward what? slouching, possibly, in the direction of some birthplace, and i don't even know it?
bizarre and emo.
symmetry.
like a woman
weaving her hair
into the water
of a stream--
it flows dark
over rocks.
the arc of
her neck, the
trajectory of
a thought.
break me, break me open,
split down the centerfold like
rock.
i'm still
so close to
what you
made me. break me,
break me.
like a woman
weaving her hair
into the water
of a stream--
it flows dark
over rocks.
the arc of
her neck, the
trajectory of
a thought.
break me, break me open,
split down the centerfold like
rock.
i'm still
so close to
what you
made me. break me,
break me.
Monday, August 13, 2007
encrustation: a song
i give out my joy, i give out my joy
i give out my joy to girl and boy.
i give out my joy to man and wife
i give out my joy to sheath and knife.
i give out my joy to north and south.
i give out my joy; it's given out.
i give out my joy like grapes off the vine
i give out my joy--it's not even mine.
i give out my joy like pen on ink
i give out my joy with the kitchen sink.
i give out my joy in the lengthy grass
i give out my joy somewhere up the ass.
i give out my joy somewhere black and red
i give out my joy in the wet wet bed.
i give out my joy on the corner street
i give out my joy in the sweet sweet meat.
giving out my joy so tell your friends
i give out my joy till the bitter end.
i give out my joy, i give out my joy
i give out my joy to girl and boy.
i give out my joy to man and wife
i give out my joy to sheath and knife.
i give out my joy to north and south.
i give out my joy; it's given out.
i give out my joy like grapes off the vine
i give out my joy--it's not even mine.
i give out my joy like pen on ink
i give out my joy with the kitchen sink.
i give out my joy in the lengthy grass
i give out my joy somewhere up the ass.
i give out my joy somewhere black and red
i give out my joy in the wet wet bed.
i give out my joy on the corner street
i give out my joy in the sweet sweet meat.
giving out my joy so tell your friends
i give out my joy till the bitter end.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
certainly very bad
a prayer
joy is not all that i have to give.
i have more than joy in me--more than happiness--
more than cloudless days, more than night
soft and liquid with moonlight.
fingers deep in earth. dirt to bear the dirt.
fire flickering on stone walls and a strange wide-berthed mouth
calling strange cries. small heavy eyes beteemed
with strange needs--i have more than life in me.
but i hope i gave you joy. even
a little: smiles like weak plum blossoms and a vapid laugh.
pieces, half-pieces of my parts--
embroidery, unmade easily, but yours...
my brain is hemmed with shadows. soul, heart,
all parts, hemmed in, woven in. sickness, wrong, shame,
fecund, sopped with overtones: a wail a dog would hear. but
this would have been a finer gift
than what i gave.
perhaps, though, less appropriate.
joy is not all that i have to give.
i have more than joy in me--more than happiness--
more than cloudless days, more than night
soft and liquid with moonlight.
fingers deep in earth. dirt to bear the dirt.
fire flickering on stone walls and a strange wide-berthed mouth
calling strange cries. small heavy eyes beteemed
with strange needs--i have more than life in me.
but i hope i gave you joy. even
a little: smiles like weak plum blossoms and a vapid laugh.
pieces, half-pieces of my parts--
embroidery, unmade easily, but yours...
my brain is hemmed with shadows. soul, heart,
all parts, hemmed in, woven in. sickness, wrong, shame,
fecund, sopped with overtones: a wail a dog would hear. but
this would have been a finer gift
than what i gave.
perhaps, though, less appropriate.
Friday, July 27, 2007
esmeralda
archduke 2
because i was good all day i took her out for a spin. revving for me, for me she took the pavements, because i'm good with her, good for her. before me who did she have? who did she have?
when i'm in her i know sometimes i take the curves too fast, i stop too fast, because i want to go. i want to feel her move. she's my secret, my witch.
sometimes when we turn my wrists cross above the wheel--sometimes, heh, i almost question who's driving.
because i was good all day i took her out for a spin. revving for me, for me she took the pavements, because i'm good with her, good for her. before me who did she have? who did she have?
when i'm in her i know sometimes i take the curves too fast, i stop too fast, because i want to go. i want to feel her move. she's my secret, my witch.
sometimes when we turn my wrists cross above the wheel--sometimes, heh, i almost question who's driving.
one more color now
communicable
harbor, baby. it's in the details,
babe:
waving knotgrass.
early gray morning.
the shiny grass.
like a plough
against a stone,
like a stone split
against a plough.
endlessly furroughing.
with earnestness
trying to explain
what the fuck it's
talking about.
harbor, baby. it's in the details,
babe:
waving knotgrass.
early gray morning.
the shiny grass.
like a plough
against a stone,
like a stone split
against a plough.
endlessly furroughing.
with earnestness
trying to explain
what the fuck it's
talking about.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
doing it and doing it
a history of collapse
navigate through
my several parts
o mind, o heart,
like a gondolier
under stone archways
on muddy waters:
bits of blue sky
and grey sky above.
navigate through
my several aspects
like physical anthropologists
in search of mayan gods.
navigate through the river of me;
unearth me. dig me out.
it must be here somewhere, under all this.
Monday, July 16, 2007
stand by me
this poem's dirt
5. this poem's dirt
because it was glassy and wanted wear
though as for that the passing there had worn them
really about the
same.
if you know what i mean.
glassy. like new york
at christmas
or was it fucking new year's?
when did vomit
become castronomic?
on the left hand of morning
lies evening sitting standing and lying again.
lying down. on the left hand
(it feels like someone else
it feels like someone else)
i can't, the walrus said.
i can't talk shit. i feel fine.
we all feel
fine.
yesterday was yestered.
sequester-ation and ration.
on the headlines drips black
ink because yesterday's veins
of news are to let.
yesterday's news is collapsing itself.
3. fibonacci
lay down your branch,
your rood, rod, and staff,
cuz they comfort me.
covet ye my people,
covet it all. it's up in there.
i want this to be over.
yesterday had a middle and end
but no beginning.
we sang about shit,
jenny lind, oprah, rosecrucians (sp?),
yesterday, wrongdoing,
like bullfrogs in the bullrushes.
don't touch me with that shit.
i don't want to be comforted by your fucking rod,
papiols.
4. gastronomy
highlights of the field trip included
grass, weeds, dirt, worms, core, iron, saffron--
which i was just MAD about--yesterday, and persephone
coughing up mortal meatsack.
narcissus, hyacinth, let's face it,
were they ever going to procreate anyway?
and who did put the bom in the bom she bom she bom?
what about the dip in the dip de dip de dip?
yeah, who dipped that?
need i metion that whole rockland thing,
or can i just leave it to small children, cherubim,
tannis root, and mercury rising?
on the left we found darkness and mist.
on the right we found communist-style glyphs:
someone's head and a day-old sun.
carved in stone.
emotion: can it get even darker
than diahrrea, that storm raging inside you?
you let it all on out now, you hear?
don't let that shit fester as so:
2. plasticene fuckers in mulberry courval (sp?)
twomp-headed angels in fat come on a ladder
and someone smears oranges on someone else on film.
where electric naked children sit on streetcorners
waiting for white heat and dredge rivers for unbroke bottles.
squeezing out juice, out juice out juice.
this isn't helping.
where ma and pa of paterson go left at the light
because mapquest said so: hedons, here we come.
where willie tyler and lester are often mentioned
on mst 3000. yeah, no.
1. scenic view
there's a vista inside me. it opens up like it's got curtains. grief's pure, man, uncut, 100%, and i was in love once. i banged my head on the pavement and i died. later, there was a man in a trenchcoat who threatened to burn me up like a fish if i said anything. earlier, there was a memory of primroses. like it's got grecian pillars: fibonacci. rock back and forth. encounter a marmot. don't say anything more:
5. this poem's dirt
because it was glassy and wanted wear
though as for that the passing there had worn them
really about the
same.
if you know what i mean.
glassy. like new york
at christmas
or was it fucking new year's?
when did vomit
become castronomic?
on the left hand of morning
lies evening sitting standing and lying again.
lying down. on the left hand
(it feels like someone else
it feels like someone else)
i can't, the walrus said.
i can't talk shit. i feel fine.
we all feel
fine.
yesterday was yestered.
sequester-ation and ration.
on the headlines drips black
ink because yesterday's veins
of news are to let.
yesterday's news is collapsing itself.
3. fibonacci
lay down your branch,
your rood, rod, and staff,
cuz they comfort me.
covet ye my people,
covet it all. it's up in there.
i want this to be over.
yesterday had a middle and end
but no beginning.
we sang about shit,
jenny lind, oprah, rosecrucians (sp?),
yesterday, wrongdoing,
like bullfrogs in the bullrushes.
don't touch me with that shit.
i don't want to be comforted by your fucking rod,
papiols.
4. gastronomy
highlights of the field trip included
grass, weeds, dirt, worms, core, iron, saffron--
which i was just MAD about--yesterday, and persephone
coughing up mortal meatsack.
narcissus, hyacinth, let's face it,
were they ever going to procreate anyway?
and who did put the bom in the bom she bom she bom?
what about the dip in the dip de dip de dip?
yeah, who dipped that?
need i metion that whole rockland thing,
or can i just leave it to small children, cherubim,
tannis root, and mercury rising?
on the left we found darkness and mist.
on the right we found communist-style glyphs:
someone's head and a day-old sun.
carved in stone.
emotion: can it get even darker
than diahrrea, that storm raging inside you?
you let it all on out now, you hear?
don't let that shit fester as so:
2. plasticene fuckers in mulberry courval (sp?)
twomp-headed angels in fat come on a ladder
and someone smears oranges on someone else on film.
where electric naked children sit on streetcorners
waiting for white heat and dredge rivers for unbroke bottles.
squeezing out juice, out juice out juice.
this isn't helping.
where ma and pa of paterson go left at the light
because mapquest said so: hedons, here we come.
where willie tyler and lester are often mentioned
on mst 3000. yeah, no.
1. scenic view
there's a vista inside me. it opens up like it's got curtains. grief's pure, man, uncut, 100%, and i was in love once. i banged my head on the pavement and i died. later, there was a man in a trenchcoat who threatened to burn me up like a fish if i said anything. earlier, there was a memory of primroses. like it's got grecian pillars: fibonacci. rock back and forth. encounter a marmot. don't say anything more:
synerjize
in rocklandisum
2. and cagney on the screen
romeo is bleeding. but not so's you'd notice.
hey, man. romeo is bleeding.
i wanted to be ute lemper, or beatrice arthur.
i wanted to be pam grier, and kim novak.
i wanted sticks and stones. i wanted huge rocks,
trees the size of city blocks.
tree bolls revealing mayan glyphs.
carved in stone but it was soft. ironic-esque.
jam handy to the rescue.
i'm jam handy.
3. in times of cholera
fog like pea soup in baker street:
hansom cabs, flickering gastric lamps,
holocaust.
freeze-dried mashed potatoes
in silvery packets, iodine packets, fork packets:
leftovers from spaaace. a seatbelt most of alll.
anyone could do this shit.
anyone could do that shit but would they want to:
dredge around in split-level infinites for some sort of
sludgemonkey. there's money to be made
in this business if you know which gastric
tract to line. i'm lying. i have no idea.
i got fucking peach juice on the bedspread
and they took away my fucking allowance:
prufrock, be afraid. be very afraid.
4. the yellow river
episodic? suuuure. whyyy nottt?
it's a snarky river of death
sludgemonkey. yesterday's liver is
tomorrow's too.
forget it. it's like
talking to a monkey.
gastronomy: study of planets
in a certain solar system.
at a certain time,
on a certain channel.
with certain aids to rambunctiousness
i've heard it on the radio:
broadcast this hamlet.
he knew a guy named yorick, and the audience
has to suffer for it.
itch harder pinocchio
itch off that wood. i couldn't go to the mall for a week
and they were having a sale on this shit i really wanted.
so watch it prufrock. you check yourself.
sunburn.
5. what happens to her happens to me (doo dee doo doo dee)
if you play this backwards
it says
WHAT THE
FUCK YOU
FUCKING FUCKERSON
FUCK FUCK FUCK
SHIT FUCK FUCK FUCK.
we don't play
it backward
much.
keep yesterday on
the left-hand side.
opium. opiate.
unstable is my hot sauce.
unstable like my dredgemonkey.
FUCK SHIT FUCK
SHIT FUCK SHIT SHIT
keep it on the splitlevel, opius,
prometheus, we're sleeping on
this level. it's live-in.
cuz it's live-able.
give to me your poor,
your tired, your charted,
your batshit insane,
and that guy who keeps waving at his own shadow.
1. uh-hunh, uh-hunh
give me your nikes
give me your hand grenades
give me hand-grenade head over there
give me omission by threat of satan.
give me fucking rest mc resterson.
give me bitches
give me niches
give me niche markets
give me yesterday again
and again and again
give me pie and maybe give me marvin gaye
give me albatross
give me a wife mistaken for a hat
give me a list, a bowtie, a ten-inch snake
give me waterfowl.
give me hatdinger
give me hate
smack it around
give me leftovers
give me hangovers
give me wrongdoings
give me wingdings
give me bugles
give me stranglers pumpkins noodle
give me sweet exhaustion
GIVE ME GOLD
CUERVO OR OTHERWISE
GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING MUSIC PAPIOLS
FUCKING GIVE ME ANYTHING
GIVE ME NICENE CREED
GIVE ME ROSEMARY'S OFFSPRING AND SOME TANNIS ROOT
GIVE ME FUCKING FLESH
GIVE ME A LONG BOX, A BLACK COAT. ENLUMBER ME. PUT ME IN DIRT.
AAAUGH GRAAAUGH MRAAAUGH HHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWW
2. and cagney on the screen
romeo is bleeding. but not so's you'd notice.
hey, man. romeo is bleeding.
i wanted to be ute lemper, or beatrice arthur.
i wanted to be pam grier, and kim novak.
i wanted sticks and stones. i wanted huge rocks,
trees the size of city blocks.
tree bolls revealing mayan glyphs.
carved in stone but it was soft. ironic-esque.
jam handy to the rescue.
i'm jam handy.
3. in times of cholera
fog like pea soup in baker street:
hansom cabs, flickering gastric lamps,
holocaust.
freeze-dried mashed potatoes
in silvery packets, iodine packets, fork packets:
leftovers from spaaace. a seatbelt most of alll.
anyone could do this shit.
anyone could do that shit but would they want to:
dredge around in split-level infinites for some sort of
sludgemonkey. there's money to be made
in this business if you know which gastric
tract to line. i'm lying. i have no idea.
i got fucking peach juice on the bedspread
and they took away my fucking allowance:
prufrock, be afraid. be very afraid.
4. the yellow river
episodic? suuuure. whyyy nottt?
it's a snarky river of death
sludgemonkey. yesterday's liver is
tomorrow's too.
forget it. it's like
talking to a monkey.
gastronomy: study of planets
in a certain solar system.
at a certain time,
on a certain channel.
with certain aids to rambunctiousness
i've heard it on the radio:
broadcast this hamlet.
he knew a guy named yorick, and the audience
has to suffer for it.
itch harder pinocchio
itch off that wood. i couldn't go to the mall for a week
and they were having a sale on this shit i really wanted.
so watch it prufrock. you check yourself.
sunburn.
5. what happens to her happens to me (doo dee doo doo dee)
if you play this backwards
it says
WHAT THE
FUCK YOU
FUCKING FUCKERSON
FUCK FUCK FUCK
SHIT FUCK FUCK FUCK.
we don't play
it backward
much.
keep yesterday on
the left-hand side.
opium. opiate.
unstable is my hot sauce.
unstable like my dredgemonkey.
FUCK SHIT FUCK
SHIT FUCK SHIT SHIT
keep it on the splitlevel, opius,
prometheus, we're sleeping on
this level. it's live-in.
cuz it's live-able.
give to me your poor,
your tired, your charted,
your batshit insane,
and that guy who keeps waving at his own shadow.
1. uh-hunh, uh-hunh
give me your nikes
give me your hand grenades
give me hand-grenade head over there
give me omission by threat of satan.
give me fucking rest mc resterson.
give me bitches
give me niches
give me niche markets
give me yesterday again
and again and again
give me pie and maybe give me marvin gaye
give me albatross
give me a wife mistaken for a hat
give me a list, a bowtie, a ten-inch snake
give me waterfowl.
give me hatdinger
give me hate
smack it around
give me leftovers
give me hangovers
give me wrongdoings
give me wingdings
give me bugles
give me stranglers pumpkins noodle
give me sweet exhaustion
GIVE ME GOLD
CUERVO OR OTHERWISE
GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING MUSIC PAPIOLS
FUCKING GIVE ME ANYTHING
GIVE ME NICENE CREED
GIVE ME ROSEMARY'S OFFSPRING AND SOME TANNIS ROOT
GIVE ME FUCKING FLESH
GIVE ME A LONG BOX, A BLACK COAT. ENLUMBER ME. PUT ME IN DIRT.
AAAUGH GRAAAUGH MRAAAUGH HHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRR
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWW
Sunday, July 15, 2007
prometheus is my personal jesus
kentucky-fried poem
5. they hunted the snark for days. its image took on in their minds a red glow, fangs dripping and mass of dark fur and a bright bacon-esque eye. each one brought something different with which to do the dark snark in: a calorie-laden meat pie, a ruby hat, a kid on a leash decalled on the side of a bowl, a smashed up storage unit, a recalcitrant waistline, a bowling pin hollowed by gnomes.
basTET, icarus, lillian shapiro,
thoth, horace, robert de niro,
leonardo dicaprio and the girl who came back from napoli.
carmen elektra, carmen jones,
carmine, carbine, double turbo super-engine,
stella and the gay who gave her groove back,
grover cleveland.
i have a zit on my back.
4. the bowling god
MOLOCH MOLOCH MOLOCHI
MOLECULAR BIOLOGY AND THE IRON CELL CIELING
RUBY TUESDAY, WHO COULD HANG A NAME ON YOU ASIDE FROM "RUBY TUESDAY"?
DOES THAT MEAN SOMETHING? IS IT DRUG-RELATED?
MOLOCH, YOU'RE AROUND.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND, WOMAN IN THE DUNES.
3. with sand in your hair
windy like the willows--the feast of st. kermit
the blood on the asphalt and prometheus hanging off the cliffs.
fire fire, my heart, blood sweat and fat.
ahi tuna trembling at the touch
waiting for swallowing, that final consumation.
strafed by eagles.
the coroner seemed friendly, i liked him quite a lot.
if i hadn't of been a woman i'd never have been caught.
they gave me back my house and car and nothing more was said...
2. if you ever need a ride there be sure to let me know
tears contain pain-killers.
encepelopathy: a certain globality of consciousness.
the mind is a lonely hunter-and-pecker,
peckinpah on drugs on a soundstage with his sunglasses on at night.
scent of camelia, mung beans, drugs, drugs, drugs:
a menacing refrigerator.
ice her.
pack her in ice.
put her in the ice capades.
deep-fat-fried movie.
clackity clack: don't come back, jan or dean.
fat. fat fat fat.
they said her heart was weak in the first place because she'd been hospitalized for anorexia in her youth. they didn't say that precisely. i assumed it. nobody said it. but we were all very white.
1. minatory redux
frito lay. feed me with your brussel sprouts, cauliflower, sunflower seed...
liver.
5. they hunted the snark for days. its image took on in their minds a red glow, fangs dripping and mass of dark fur and a bright bacon-esque eye. each one brought something different with which to do the dark snark in: a calorie-laden meat pie, a ruby hat, a kid on a leash decalled on the side of a bowl, a smashed up storage unit, a recalcitrant waistline, a bowling pin hollowed by gnomes.
basTET, icarus, lillian shapiro,
thoth, horace, robert de niro,
leonardo dicaprio and the girl who came back from napoli.
carmen elektra, carmen jones,
carmine, carbine, double turbo super-engine,
stella and the gay who gave her groove back,
grover cleveland.
i have a zit on my back.
4. the bowling god
MOLOCH MOLOCH MOLOCHI
MOLECULAR BIOLOGY AND THE IRON CELL CIELING
RUBY TUESDAY, WHO COULD HANG A NAME ON YOU ASIDE FROM "RUBY TUESDAY"?
DOES THAT MEAN SOMETHING? IS IT DRUG-RELATED?
MOLOCH, YOU'RE AROUND.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND, WOMAN IN THE DUNES.
3. with sand in your hair
windy like the willows--the feast of st. kermit
the blood on the asphalt and prometheus hanging off the cliffs.
fire fire, my heart, blood sweat and fat.
ahi tuna trembling at the touch
waiting for swallowing, that final consumation.
strafed by eagles.
the coroner seemed friendly, i liked him quite a lot.
if i hadn't of been a woman i'd never have been caught.
they gave me back my house and car and nothing more was said...
2. if you ever need a ride there be sure to let me know
tears contain pain-killers.
encepelopathy: a certain globality of consciousness.
the mind is a lonely hunter-and-pecker,
peckinpah on drugs on a soundstage with his sunglasses on at night.
scent of camelia, mung beans, drugs, drugs, drugs:
a menacing refrigerator.
ice her.
pack her in ice.
put her in the ice capades.
deep-fat-fried movie.
clackity clack: don't come back, jan or dean.
fat. fat fat fat.
they said her heart was weak in the first place because she'd been hospitalized for anorexia in her youth. they didn't say that precisely. i assumed it. nobody said it. but we were all very white.
1. minatory redux
frito lay. feed me with your brussel sprouts, cauliflower, sunflower seed...
liver.
blanche ingram has dark hair damnit
because sometimes i understand things about the way that i "write" in a sort of really really toned-down saul-on-the-road-to-damascus kind of way, i'm going to make a note as to a thing i just realized here and now:
repetition in my "stuff" functions, i think, in the same way that it functions in my mind, which is that it can be a blessing or a curse. that sounds stupid. let me try again: on the personal emotional level, repetition, i think, is the closest that a person can come to emulating meat in art, the actual processes of feeling-in-meatsack as opposed to what we think feeling means in words (i've made this point before, but i'm repeating it [heh!] because i don't understand it). like i think that the way forster described emotion, sometimes, was just as alienating as the way that, say, nora roberts describes emotion (and i'm not knocking nora roberts--i'm just saying that she is, more than other authors, within a genre, one in which she shines often, that uses certain types of description)--with forster it's alienating because it's too cerebral, too controlled, too intentionally new, and with roberts it's alienating because it's too cliched so that one's own personal experience comes as an actual surprise to one when one has something like what the books describe, right? i don't think that repetition comes in and fills the gap between over-cerebrality and over-reliance on forms. i think it approaches the problem of personal physical emotion from a different standpoint. and i'm too stupid to be able to pinpoint what that standpoint is. but the point isn't that--the point of this particular entry is just to say that this lanthorn is the moon, i the man in the moon, this thornbush my thornbush and this dog my dog. no it isn't. now i'm deeply confused and will have to start over.
comprehension of the power of repetition is something that i don't have much background or experience in trying for (hey, once again, i don't know what i'm talking about! who saw that coming?). from what i understand of o.c.d. (which isn't much), repetition's intensely comforting and just as intensely driving--i don't have o.c.d., but i get it, or what i think is it, to a certain extent. because my mind repeats words, phrases, melodies, ideas. like gertrude stein, i understand them as different each time the same word or whatever is spoken in my mind--they gain form, feeling, depth, in the same way, i feel, that my understanding of what is the body gains form, feeling, and depth: they become incomprehensibly deep objects. and i personally think that's a good thing--or not necessarily good, but true, and realer than either forster's or roberts' approach...though not necessarily better. i mean, the point of emotion-depiction-through-repetition is, in part, to divest what's felt of its cerebrality and its clichedness, but that's not necessarily desireable. it's just necessary, for me. maybe.
hmm. what i maybe mean is that i don't like these poems. they're stupid. they've gone beyond the point of the lorca poems, which were over-obvious, over-personal, and have kind of gotten into laughing idiot god territory. they aren't saying anything. there's no flow, no arc; at the point of the last one i'm not even playing with concepts. they're heartless; they're not t.s. eliot fragmented, but fragmented in an even dumber way. none of this may be visible to the naked eye. i should probably revise them. but they don't mean enough for me to do so on any but the most basely instinctual plan... (what else is new?) the point is that i don't want to be writing what i've been writing. it's trite, stupid drivel. but the repetition is driving. because i can only allow myself to feel a very certain type of thing, because everything else offends my sensibilities, and yet i have to feel something. god, that sounds ridiculous.
repetition in my "stuff" functions, i think, in the same way that it functions in my mind, which is that it can be a blessing or a curse. that sounds stupid. let me try again: on the personal emotional level, repetition, i think, is the closest that a person can come to emulating meat in art, the actual processes of feeling-in-meatsack as opposed to what we think feeling means in words (i've made this point before, but i'm repeating it [heh!] because i don't understand it). like i think that the way forster described emotion, sometimes, was just as alienating as the way that, say, nora roberts describes emotion (and i'm not knocking nora roberts--i'm just saying that she is, more than other authors, within a genre, one in which she shines often, that uses certain types of description)--with forster it's alienating because it's too cerebral, too controlled, too intentionally new, and with roberts it's alienating because it's too cliched so that one's own personal experience comes as an actual surprise to one when one has something like what the books describe, right? i don't think that repetition comes in and fills the gap between over-cerebrality and over-reliance on forms. i think it approaches the problem of personal physical emotion from a different standpoint. and i'm too stupid to be able to pinpoint what that standpoint is. but the point isn't that--the point of this particular entry is just to say that this lanthorn is the moon, i the man in the moon, this thornbush my thornbush and this dog my dog. no it isn't. now i'm deeply confused and will have to start over.
comprehension of the power of repetition is something that i don't have much background or experience in trying for (hey, once again, i don't know what i'm talking about! who saw that coming?). from what i understand of o.c.d. (which isn't much), repetition's intensely comforting and just as intensely driving--i don't have o.c.d., but i get it, or what i think is it, to a certain extent. because my mind repeats words, phrases, melodies, ideas. like gertrude stein, i understand them as different each time the same word or whatever is spoken in my mind--they gain form, feeling, depth, in the same way, i feel, that my understanding of what is the body gains form, feeling, and depth: they become incomprehensibly deep objects. and i personally think that's a good thing--or not necessarily good, but true, and realer than either forster's or roberts' approach...though not necessarily better. i mean, the point of emotion-depiction-through-repetition is, in part, to divest what's felt of its cerebrality and its clichedness, but that's not necessarily desireable. it's just necessary, for me. maybe.
hmm. what i maybe mean is that i don't like these poems. they're stupid. they've gone beyond the point of the lorca poems, which were over-obvious, over-personal, and have kind of gotten into laughing idiot god territory. they aren't saying anything. there's no flow, no arc; at the point of the last one i'm not even playing with concepts. they're heartless; they're not t.s. eliot fragmented, but fragmented in an even dumber way. none of this may be visible to the naked eye. i should probably revise them. but they don't mean enough for me to do so on any but the most basely instinctual plan... (what else is new?) the point is that i don't want to be writing what i've been writing. it's trite, stupid drivel. but the repetition is driving. because i can only allow myself to feel a very certain type of thing, because everything else offends my sensibilities, and yet i have to feel something. god, that sounds ridiculous.
Friday, July 13, 2007
possibly the worst poem ever written
e questo
5. constellating
red scharlach, conan o'brien,
i'm with you in rockland.
mr. ed, mr. parker,
watermelon man, i'm with you. i'm with you.
i tried on black, black, black,
black this and black that:
a black coat and black shoes and a black hat.
i lost some cities once.
my fingers smell like cranberries.
it's a red smell, that cranberry smell.
it's so like candy (so like candy).
cogwheels, i'm with you.
tchaikovsky and nephew, brian littrell,
you, guy in the subway with your crazed violin,
e.t.a. hoffman, i'm with you in rockland.
4. x =
i tried on black all day--all day and night.
i have been to the chain store--and the other chain.
i have outwalked the furthest city light.
black dress black gloves black tights.
space.
it's the place.
i chased down emmet kelley, lillian shapiro
and william h. macey.
i gave my entire family problem gas.
3.
menotti, i'm with you in rockland.
i'm with you, prokofiev, and sartre, reluctantly.
freaking pour names down on me like sand, fill me with sandlike names.
libatum me, domine, something something...
in die illa tremendousness, something something.
over-arcing, the sweet scent of narcissus-white jasmine
riding the soft image of clouds at a summer sunset so that
pink becomes a smell,
transmutated into a time and place,
fixed down like prometheus on the rock.
blood, fat and ashes.
i'm with you in rockland sirius the dogstar
and cerberus, sisyphus and persephone and the
shades in the asphodel named as such. fertility and its overtones of death:
narcissus. white. with smooth petals. i've got you in rockland.
2. pantywaist
the smells of summer:
kettle corn, vodka, heat.
rich in color like camelias or
someone else's tanned shoulders.
reach down into it with mouth and
taste that fat. plunge tongue into it.
open it with beak and talons. repeat, god, repeat.
i have a zit on my upper lip.
i'm with you in rockland, anyone i know or have ever heard of.
5.
she's fucking dead papiols. lay off the tambour.
5. constellating
red scharlach, conan o'brien,
i'm with you in rockland.
mr. ed, mr. parker,
watermelon man, i'm with you. i'm with you.
i tried on black, black, black,
black this and black that:
a black coat and black shoes and a black hat.
i lost some cities once.
my fingers smell like cranberries.
it's a red smell, that cranberry smell.
it's so like candy (so like candy).
cogwheels, i'm with you.
tchaikovsky and nephew, brian littrell,
you, guy in the subway with your crazed violin,
e.t.a. hoffman, i'm with you in rockland.
4. x =
i tried on black all day--all day and night.
i have been to the chain store--and the other chain.
i have outwalked the furthest city light.
black dress black gloves black tights.
space.
it's the place.
i chased down emmet kelley, lillian shapiro
and william h. macey.
i gave my entire family problem gas.
3.
menotti, i'm with you in rockland.
i'm with you, prokofiev, and sartre, reluctantly.
freaking pour names down on me like sand, fill me with sandlike names.
libatum me, domine, something something...
in die illa tremendousness, something something.
over-arcing, the sweet scent of narcissus-white jasmine
riding the soft image of clouds at a summer sunset so that
pink becomes a smell,
transmutated into a time and place,
fixed down like prometheus on the rock.
blood, fat and ashes.
i'm with you in rockland sirius the dogstar
and cerberus, sisyphus and persephone and the
shades in the asphodel named as such. fertility and its overtones of death:
narcissus. white. with smooth petals. i've got you in rockland.
2. pantywaist
the smells of summer:
kettle corn, vodka, heat.
rich in color like camelias or
someone else's tanned shoulders.
reach down into it with mouth and
taste that fat. plunge tongue into it.
open it with beak and talons. repeat, god, repeat.
i have a zit on my upper lip.
i'm with you in rockland, anyone i know or have ever heard of.
5.
she's fucking dead papiols. lay off the tambour.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
brahms
1.
the art of losing isn't hard to master.
did i do it wrong?
left left and right and then left again at the light.
commentating upon the process with a cork on the screw.
i'm the cool coper.
like a story: whither shall i follow follow thee?
narrative arcin' like nuit over the nile.
star-spangled and whatnot.
1.
to the waist: minatory.
rebellion open on pavement: the dark hand of the, left side of the, the dark-underbellied complement, the component of the./ /// ////
let x'd equal x'd. firestarting: drew barrymore with angelhair.
i can't get down on it.
--libera me, ma, pa. you hope that's a cry you're hearing in the night of your soul.
lycanthropy is the hairy man's excuse to stop shaving.
the moon.
2.
but it might have been indigestion. nuit. full-frontal. that barque of stars spangled across her funzones. god, i don't want to have these doubts.
havey-caveat. if you confess it it's like it never happened.
there is no it there to get down on, is that it? der rosenkavalier?
how godlike is the form she bears.
never interrupt me when i'm lunching.
head against pavement.
i made it out of clay. and when it's dry and ready,
shit is going down.
3.
break.
tender is the buttons. playa. hold me down.
steak sandwich. head against pavement.
what the hell have i done wrong to get this turkish treatment?
from the inside out lady. otaku and out.
will he ever come again? he will never come again.
to the greenwood, to the greenwood, to the greenwood, greenwood tree.
nuit: fucking materials.
pinprickin' like i.v. the absence of the heart to grow fonder of.
it's like it never even existed.
4.
i'm with you in
michigan
carl whatsis.
orni...
something something.
line here.
scoop out the seeds and that white stuff. scoop out all the clay.
...tologia.
5.
story arc.
because the ending is a filter. proust said so.
de kooning painted pink.--tologia.
maybe he painted the molly ringwald advance copy:
po tee wheet?
scritto in ciel e il mio dolor. -nuit
denn alles fleisch ist wie gras
head against pavement.
set your face. use your left hand. it feels like someone else...it feels like someone else.
5.
music, ho.
it's like it's slipping away. it can't do that.
the art of losing isn't hard to master.
did i do it wrong?
left left and right and then left again at the light.
commentating upon the process with a cork on the screw.
i'm the cool coper.
like a story: whither shall i follow follow thee?
narrative arcin' like nuit over the nile.
star-spangled and whatnot.
1.
to the waist: minatory.
rebellion open on pavement: the dark hand of the, left side of the, the dark-underbellied complement, the component of the./ /// ////
let x'd equal x'd. firestarting: drew barrymore with angelhair.
i can't get down on it.
--libera me, ma, pa. you hope that's a cry you're hearing in the night of your soul.
lycanthropy is the hairy man's excuse to stop shaving.
the moon.
2.
but it might have been indigestion. nuit. full-frontal. that barque of stars spangled across her funzones. god, i don't want to have these doubts.
havey-caveat. if you confess it it's like it never happened.
there is no it there to get down on, is that it? der rosenkavalier?
how godlike is the form she bears.
never interrupt me when i'm lunching.
head against pavement.
i made it out of clay. and when it's dry and ready,
shit is going down.
3.
break.
tender is the buttons. playa. hold me down.
steak sandwich. head against pavement.
what the hell have i done wrong to get this turkish treatment?
from the inside out lady. otaku and out.
will he ever come again? he will never come again.
to the greenwood, to the greenwood, to the greenwood, greenwood tree.
nuit: fucking materials.
pinprickin' like i.v. the absence of the heart to grow fonder of.
it's like it never even existed.
4.
i'm with you in
michigan
carl whatsis.
orni...
something something.
line here.
scoop out the seeds and that white stuff. scoop out all the clay.
...tologia.
5.
story arc.
because the ending is a filter. proust said so.
de kooning painted pink.--tologia.
maybe he painted the molly ringwald advance copy:
po tee wheet?
scritto in ciel e il mio dolor. -nuit
denn alles fleisch ist wie gras
head against pavement.
set your face. use your left hand. it feels like someone else...it feels like someone else.
5.
music, ho.
it's like it's slipping away. it can't do that.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
redhead (this is by no means a literary production--i am barely writing this)
my eyes hurt. my teeth are throbbing gently in the gums. i feel very heavy. and i'm starving. i can't talk to anyone--i don't deserve to talk to anyone.
you know what dylan thomas said. they used it in 4 weddings and a funeral. i don't feel like that. it's possible i just don't have the capacity. it's possible i'm doing it again--pushing myself, testing out how far i can go before i break. but i've never broken yet. which means i've never gone far enough.
stop all the clocks. i don't feel like that. i mean, i want to know. i want to break.
i broke once. on the street corner next to city hall. it was kind of like something out of lermontov. this is why a hero of our time is one of my favorite books, even though i will probably never read it again.
i broke a little in boswell's.
i broke in controlled swells in the bathroom at the california theatre. i guess that doesn't count.
i'm so sorry. i hope you know how sorry i am. i hope you know how extremely sorry i am.
you know what dylan thomas said. they used it in 4 weddings and a funeral. i don't feel like that. it's possible i just don't have the capacity. it's possible i'm doing it again--pushing myself, testing out how far i can go before i break. but i've never broken yet. which means i've never gone far enough.
stop all the clocks. i don't feel like that. i mean, i want to know. i want to break.
i broke once. on the street corner next to city hall. it was kind of like something out of lermontov. this is why a hero of our time is one of my favorite books, even though i will probably never read it again.
i broke a little in boswell's.
i broke in controlled swells in the bathroom at the california theatre. i guess that doesn't count.
i'm so sorry. i hope you know how sorry i am. i hope you know how extremely sorry i am.
Friday, June 29, 2007
interests
1.
hell or high water
on the twelfth day o' december
i'm with you in rockland,
carl wethers and
lillian shapiro shapiro shapiro
and william h. macy
and that guy over there the one standing up
on a promontory strafed by the wine-dark surf.
it was screaming all day long
into the rain
there was no matter, clarice--
you already knew she was going to die.
(twelfth day o' december.)
shut up and take it like
it was meant to be taken.
stop whining like a little rat dog
with its little rat tail in a little pink purse and the tail thumps the sides.
(twelfth day o' december.)
glass eyes and a clockwork tail
that thumps on the floor.
(twelfth day o' december.)
thump thump.
thump thump.
2.
it likes to be stoic.
it makes itself a daisy chain out of fucking daisies
and little hopes and dreams and a dress with an apron.
and it's like ooh i'm so stoic check out my apron.
god damnit i want it to die
i want to hit it over the head with a frying pan
and make up for 24 years of lost time.
3.
GRAUGH AUGH MRAUGH AURRR CRAAH AURDGH MORGGRAH
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND MIKE McCLURE.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND SADIE HAWKINS.
I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND DAYS OF OUR LIVES
LUCY SNOWE
JIGOKU HEN
THE REAPERS WITH THEIR SILENT SWINGING
OUR HUNTING FATHERS
WIN A DATE WITH TAD HAMILTON
THE DAY THAT LADY DIED
SKETCHES OF SPAIN
WINTER WHEN NO FLOWER
MISHIMA'S ST. SEBASTIAN
RED SCHARLACH
AND THAT GUY IN SPIDER-MAN WHO WAS MADE OUT OF SAND WITH A FIST LIKE A BOMB.
YEAH, I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND, BOMB-FISTED SAND GUY.
4.
neophyte angels with tongue-twisting names
on the sun-cracked streets of laredo looking for a bit of play
space space
dendribium orchids
and dendrobiums and phylliums and ondridiums
concupiscent
on a scented pillow
like something out of anne rice.
fuckin' music, papiols, come.
play on, bitches. play on.
(twelfth day o' december.)
to have a billion-track mind.
jimmy cracked corn and
unleashed the dogs of war and
his eyes were green as leeks.
and yellow cowslip cheeks, lady,
i barely knew ye.
5.
she was so beautiful and so talented.
where the hell is that fucking music?
Monday, June 18, 2007
blah blah-ologist
it interests me nearly that van gogh could know the potato eaters for a masterpiece. (because everything i hear, see, read, taste, smell or touch--everything i experience, in fact, except for pain--gets processed through me at an alarming rate--i'm not bragging; it is alarming; i continuously have to go back for obscure pieces of my comprehensions that i didn't realize i'd absorbed in order to get to where i've got, consequentially my ratiocination is not so much full of holes as just soaked, you know? jumbled? doing something quickly doesn't entail doing it well. anyway, because of this, finding out about van gogh means something to me, and i recognize that it's something not necessarily intrinsic to van gogh. like janie with her meshes, i'm checking it out.)
i realize that a lot--most--of the things that are on this blog are crap. they aren't always unnecessary crap, i guess, but they lack dimension. i write them because i think someone would like to see them, or because they relieve a piece of consciousness that sits heavier than a denny's meal on my insides (i do like denny's; i just don't like how it makes me feel). poetry's hard because it's like singing: i have to superintend the feeling. the process is by no means obvious. and every once in a while i get it, but most of the time i fuck it up.
my point is thus: i'm no van gogh, but i know--i'm fairly sure--that the "dream leaven and dream" poems are, not good, but the best i've done thus far. it's quite possible they're not publishable. they don't make any sense; they're overly self-involved; the words in them are like stones in a field under the jackhammer (but, you know, less good than that would imply). hopefully they pass the point of comprehension without being incomprehendable. what they mean is a flavor, a texture, something past the point of "meaning," right? but they're furry, like a lollipop in a couch. they're improper. they're not good. they're too personal--they're like laura riding's in that sense.
i have no idea, in short, how to quantify the fact that i believe in them more than i do in other stuff i've done. even ed wood, even that "facets IV," which i like alot, is just goofing around. i believe in "facets V," but you can't have that without the first 4, and 1 and 2 are playthings, and 3 is overly, stuffily portentous.
i did some poems before i came on here, after i'd...gotten mused, i guess (did you know that v has a wonderful plan for your life?), and some of those were good. but i abandoned them because i thought that they were too traditional. can you stand it? of course nothing exists in a vacuum. millions of people more talented than i have things to say. if i can't run with the curve, i'd probably best get out the kitchen (way to mix a metaphor).
i don't know. i just don't know. (i'll have to take it up with my sales manager). h.d. meant every word of "helen of egypt." but niedecker might not have meant every word of her thomas jefferson poems, and those are just as beautiful.
the point is, it's okay if my poems are unacceptable. i'm not saying that's what makes them great, but i'm taking leave to believe in them--only a select few, however--despite probably-deserved rejection. does that make any sense? maybe i only believe in the state of mind i was in while writing them? self-doubt, with bells on, ladies and gentlemen.
i realize that a lot--most--of the things that are on this blog are crap. they aren't always unnecessary crap, i guess, but they lack dimension. i write them because i think someone would like to see them, or because they relieve a piece of consciousness that sits heavier than a denny's meal on my insides (i do like denny's; i just don't like how it makes me feel). poetry's hard because it's like singing: i have to superintend the feeling. the process is by no means obvious. and every once in a while i get it, but most of the time i fuck it up.
my point is thus: i'm no van gogh, but i know--i'm fairly sure--that the "dream leaven and dream" poems are, not good, but the best i've done thus far. it's quite possible they're not publishable. they don't make any sense; they're overly self-involved; the words in them are like stones in a field under the jackhammer (but, you know, less good than that would imply). hopefully they pass the point of comprehension without being incomprehendable. what they mean is a flavor, a texture, something past the point of "meaning," right? but they're furry, like a lollipop in a couch. they're improper. they're not good. they're too personal--they're like laura riding's in that sense.
i have no idea, in short, how to quantify the fact that i believe in them more than i do in other stuff i've done. even ed wood, even that "facets IV," which i like alot, is just goofing around. i believe in "facets V," but you can't have that without the first 4, and 1 and 2 are playthings, and 3 is overly, stuffily portentous.
i did some poems before i came on here, after i'd...gotten mused, i guess (did you know that v has a wonderful plan for your life?), and some of those were good. but i abandoned them because i thought that they were too traditional. can you stand it? of course nothing exists in a vacuum. millions of people more talented than i have things to say. if i can't run with the curve, i'd probably best get out the kitchen (way to mix a metaphor).
i don't know. i just don't know. (i'll have to take it up with my sales manager). h.d. meant every word of "helen of egypt." but niedecker might not have meant every word of her thomas jefferson poems, and those are just as beautiful.
the point is, it's okay if my poems are unacceptable. i'm not saying that's what makes them great, but i'm taking leave to believe in them--only a select few, however--despite probably-deserved rejection. does that make any sense? maybe i only believe in the state of mind i was in while writing them? self-doubt, with bells on, ladies and gentlemen.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
heimat
persephone redux
1. english breakfast
i said i hate to beat a dead horse but i'm freaking lying. i love it. i can't get enough. i see a dead horse and i just go to town.
2. whiplash
i like ice cream but it's more a second date sort of dessert. first date dessert is like pussy. no, it's like vodka. yeah. it's the drink you have after you get home from the date and go oh my fucking god what did i just do?--that's the true first date dessert. you savor that drink. pussy's, like, a third date dessert.
3. i love you, vicky/vicky, i you love/you love vicky, i
when picknicking in the park an effluvia, an excess of fizzy drinks is necessary at the outset. to defray the expense i reccomend a pencil sharpener, a wallet, a lava cake, some dark receptacle. a train tunnel, maybe. sometimes i'm at work snapping on my latex gloves and all i really want to be is one of the tongue depressors in the jar on the counter, all wooden and ready for tonguing.
4. player
hold me down.
5. in the sky with diamonds
lately i'm not half the man i used to be. fortunately this isn't a problem because people want me to be this other guy, this new man, who's, like, basically equivalent to approximately one half of the former me, so it all works out. i think. i'm not great at math.
1. english breakfast
i said i hate to beat a dead horse but i'm freaking lying. i love it. i can't get enough. i see a dead horse and i just go to town.
2. whiplash
i like ice cream but it's more a second date sort of dessert. first date dessert is like pussy. no, it's like vodka. yeah. it's the drink you have after you get home from the date and go oh my fucking god what did i just do?--that's the true first date dessert. you savor that drink. pussy's, like, a third date dessert.
3. i love you, vicky/vicky, i you love/you love vicky, i
when picknicking in the park an effluvia, an excess of fizzy drinks is necessary at the outset. to defray the expense i reccomend a pencil sharpener, a wallet, a lava cake, some dark receptacle. a train tunnel, maybe. sometimes i'm at work snapping on my latex gloves and all i really want to be is one of the tongue depressors in the jar on the counter, all wooden and ready for tonguing.
4. player
hold me down.
5. in the sky with diamonds
lately i'm not half the man i used to be. fortunately this isn't a problem because people want me to be this other guy, this new man, who's, like, basically equivalent to approximately one half of the former me, so it all works out. i think. i'm not great at math.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)