Archive for May, 2012

Fuck You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me

May 31, 2012

You told me our life and everything in it is a miracle
I told you that made miracles mundane banalities, trivial
You told me to replace my negativity with positivity
I told you my batteries would cease to work
You told me our happiness depends more on our dispositions than circumstances
I told you to sing that song to a slave
You told me to nurture myself, to care for my soul,
and if I did this, I would be beautiful inside and out
I told you beauty is a product of the mind and to pass me a beer
You told me to be kind and create good karma
I told you to take a cold look at the world
and that what goes around goes away… permanently
and what comes around is our mortality… eternally
You told me to look for the blessings in everything
I told you nothing, inspecting my naval lint for god’s good graces
You told me I deserve to be loving and affectionate towards myself
I told you I’d only be a nonreciprocal ingrate, pissing me off at myself to no end
You told me to honor diversity and respect life
I told you I cannot honor diversity for too much of it has no respect for life
You told me you wished you could show me the light of my own being
I told you my light would fry out your eyes and tan your skin to leather
that it is the light of reason, of logic, of rationality
that it is the cool fluorescent glow,
illuminating the ignorance
of superstition, religion
and new age hokum
my light is surgical upon an operating table
dissecting baseless belief systems
my light is a laser
cutting out cancerous credulity
and correcting vision
to cure humankind forever of blind faith… and then…
You told me you’d pray for me


The Merciful Absence of Grief in Future Warfare

May 30, 2012

It isn’t very poetic to say
your love is a chemical
composed of, among others: Carbon 43
Hydrogen 66 Nitrogen 12
Oxygen 12 Sulfur 2 and when
its neutralizing agent is properly
your love
will be annihilated
like youth mutilated in gravity
or memory
done in by time
too long
but on the upside
your loved ones
will shed no tears
for you either

Beholden Rods, Cones and Blood

May 29, 2012

#1: The Painter:
A long-shot elaboration on the beg
turning in brushstrokes for dollars
the artist’s gallery is the beggar on the corner
palm up, shaking expectantly
for a drink, for rent
or the grand ka-ching to keep her
waist deep in straw for life

#2: The Comedian:
Standing up, desperate like a dog
getting out the right yelps, woofs and whimpers
to get the laugh scraps that fill the seats
that buys the steak and the blow
onward to sitcom bliss

#3: The Sculptor:
Like a convict breaking rock
for the big break, chiseling away demons
that won’t take total flight
until they sit there
all abstract and shit
in a famous multi-millionaires parlor

#4: The Dancer:
Locomotion: predator and prey
pure animal action
jump, stomp and twirl into the halls
of elitist success – spin, spin, spin
pirouette and shake those tits for tat

#5: The Writer:
Fingers on hopeful keys
each marked by symbolic portent
in search of domesticated order
twitching lonely like a pollywog at the end of a fork

#6: The Priest:
If art is the search of greater truths
then there is none greater than
the selling of carrot and stick cons
to the mulched and murdered masses
stroking, wagging and tickling for a child’s hard love

And We All Lived Happily Ever After

May 28, 2012

Peace crime in wartime
rubber bullets on the jury
compassion is a lustful wench
weakening a young country’s knees
fortification through hatred and harshness
meets a nation’s needs
cooperative strategies, caring and sharing –
vileness all, draining you of vigor
Love? It will not help you through this
Your neighbors, friends and allies
will not help you through this
a man alone never knows betrayal
in perfect solitude is borne perfect resistance
to the diseases of empathy, altruism and understanding
under one God
should stand one Man – apart, alone, unashamed
fully justified in keeping to him what is his
he who helps himself helps himself
through this
deeper into this
past the breakers, out into the sea of this
and if you should go under
shun the foolish lifeguard, battling waves
risking limb
as she helps to pull you out of this
clutch on and drag her down to drown
along with you, as greedy waters invade empty places
embrace her into the depths
to help you through this
at the end of this
where you finally find yourself
doing the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done,


May 27, 2012

creamily corroded clock gears
in a painting of persistent time
grinds like a bull goring
by standers in shish kebap rows
grimy floors demand mopping
sticky scum-matted
hopelessly aromatic
stuck in a haze of romantic soup
a porto-potty overflowed
white water shit raft
over turds of stoically inclined seduction
calling to all comers
lovers in protuberant arms
hugging cocks discharged
a payload of distrustful angst
milky, viscous and pathetic
drip-drop into ears of shit
unsteady vibrations
rise in demonic ascension
through feet and groin, trembling
electric buzz along the wire
hold tightly the line of desire
bonded through it to the shore
caustic erosion
rivers convergent
tributary defined by volume
as we surrender
confederates on a bender
from start to stop overhanded
four fingered in puffy white gloves
this is how we hedge our Disney land bets

Turtle Soup

May 26, 2012

Good would to be unknown
like a sea turtle
an egg laid and abandoned
cough and claw out of sand
dash for soothing salt waters
alone, parentless
no one to miss you
no one for you to miss
without the pain of others
death is a dry fart
snug under a quilted comforter

to do it again
I would avoid men
do away with things, disconnect
to do it again
suicide at the tit
to do it again
I would choose not to
to do it again is the torment of war
to do it again is to relive
the madness of a man
who’d rather be a gull’s meal
than try

Tainted Meat

May 25, 2012

Cambrian expectations, you can’t follow through
on your mom’s hopes & dreams for you,
not a man can carry on this dead lineage
and spring into a bounty of new forms
Cambrian explosions batter you senseless
shockwaves and shrapnel spinning like galaxies of fire
following in the disturbed wake of space-time –
the electromagnetic pulse that stopped
God’s AG13 battery operated watch cold
and that Fucker hasn’t known what the time is
for nigh on fourteen billion years
and He doesn’t care
couldn’t give less of a fuck
shows up for work late or not at all
calls in sick when hungover
gets drunk and bored
and fucks some young Jewish broad
behind her husband’s back
puts you to work sawing wood and pounding nails
shovels out an elaborate line of shit
and there you are, ironically hung,
nailed down on the board like a joke
like if you’d been a mason
the old man would’ve had you stoned dead
battered senseless by expectations impossible
to fulfill… hopes and dreams
your mother’s God-wrecked cunt weeping as you die
for the sins of the Father…
Lord, what an embarrassment you were to all concerned.

Notes From Excusitania

May 24, 2012

Communication in the palm of our hands
compacting the ends of earth
diminishing distance to map scale
and as the world shrinks
we grow closer to peace
the best of times advances
feel like it, it may not seem
plagued as our emerging unity of tribes is
by sudden violent hiccups of terror and the beastly
loosening of morality in war
still, our harmonious contentment
marches forth, outstripping
the pace of bloodied boots on the ground
humanity improves – the crowd unmaddens
and we turn inward amidst all of this
crawling inside out – digging in
to find the excuses for why
as societies improve
we individuals do not
and this it turns out is our raison d’être
our rétar dûd, the rascal drug
to cure us of deficient attention
our surfeit of cultural pressures
who amongst us is not the way we are
because of external circumstances
spousal depression, parental neglect
mentally abused by Twinkie cake
government flu shots
the food pyramid making us fat
but in success and happiness
we will be hard pressed to find
anyone turning down the easy lines of credit
destined to bankrupt us
in our newborn days of greater compassion and care
there is only one enemy, becoming slowly clearer
as the boards of stage whither and warp
the truth behind
the illusion of our personal failings
is exposed
the agent provocateur stands naked
on display
in the bitter lights
obscenely jigging out of step
an aberration of the new age
taking, destroying – fanning and nurturing our epidemic
of self-loathing destruction…
it is the banks
it is the insurance companies
child labor and sweat shops
it is union busting
it is industrial deregulation
pharmaceutical monopolies and day traders
it is living in Excusitania
where the poor are blamed for all the ills of the poor
and no excuse is spared for the endless appetites of the rich


May 23, 2012

Black magic whimsy rapes
the predator-eyed congregation
who once were sheep
but now dye their wool
in the hot blood of fascist niggers
as they lustfully incant
the grim reaper’s aid
in prayers for death
they beseech Him
to shuck traditional black robes
for the white cassock and peaked hood
trade scythe for noose
and whisk that uppity problem
away to the Kenyan section of Hell

Burning Down the House

May 22, 2012

Everything becomes the enemy in the small house
for the big man
or not so big: 6’2” and 14 stone
(that’s 200lbs to you & me)
pound for pound, what a pounding
I take about 50 hits a day
shoulder to door frame
hip to table top
I get a fat lip drinking water
The small house gets smaller
shrink wrap melting to my skin
in my little microwave of a home
towering over the sink, hunch-backed
I tickle the rag around the insides
of yesterday’s glasses
shots and pints
Lumbar! Lumbar!
Such lumbar pain
I stretch out, arching, upwards, outwards
trembling with the new born’s pleasure
or terror
of expansion beyond the cloistered womb
until my back hand bashes the hanging lamp
and I cower as eight lights sway above
agitated like warrior angels, swords aflame.
Everything becomes the enemy in the small house.
The sofa mocks me.
Doorways laugh at my pain.
Floorboards snicker at my throbbing stubbed toes
and hanging Seraphim openly taunt
the coffee table attacks
the shower head spits venom
armies of insects infiltrate the cracks
in the plaster and
through five decades old electrical outlets –
their blank slit eyes bleed dull-pink ants
that find my house none too small
for them
and my larder’s contents none too meager
for them
The ants are my enemy
as is everything in the small house
and the ants say, “The enemy of my enemy is my ally.”
and all has gone to shit
as I’m backed into the corner
against the ants, against the small house
just me, a case of beers, a can of raid
and thoughts of a Talking Heads’ hit.