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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:05 pm]
by to dread, bodied
by my Full,
Too true.

a car is a place.


How horrible. A car.

Once, a gradeschool teacher told me,


When I met you you were warm and precious.

You are larger and I don’t like it.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:05 pm]
Peach-shaped buzzsaw carve off the cradle’s face. Search behind your zipper for a harrumph. Fasten a transponder to the underside of your chin and wait for me to find you. There’s a movie where a doctor saves coffee farmers in feudal New Jersey. I gave it four boxes of Twizzlers. Traffic cops princess when possible. Yogurt isn’t the only ticket but it’s the only one worth buying a safety deposit box for. My lips are raw from no one and the pit of font bones. Penile symmetry’s going out of style for the weekend. Long sentences bore. Trip Tonkas verb adjectively on a noun. How many greasers does it take to change a fight hall?

Bearing down on your pencil I want a larger orchestra. I don’t flirt when I shouldn’t.

I don’t flirt when I should.

Earn this. Earn this like a paycheck. Put effort in. Think around and above, and if need be, below. Earn this thought, so that you might carry it as a thought you had thought yourself, in spared times standling in lines so long. Let it be sweet to your tongue when you speak it, and let it ease the aches that you sometimes find in your head. This thought is not a drug. It’s not a savior. It’s a salve. To know its honesty, you have bent the circles of time, in that you have seen the future enough to know that you are just good enough not to know my face.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:04 pm]
Suicide for provocateurs.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:04 pm]
Flypaper, flypaper, make me a match. Walk in from the left and turn your eyes on the commissary. Here there are women and women more. You know them all. In your loft there’s a guarantee. A vagabond girl. She’s coming. She’s on her way. Before she arrives you better clean up. Make the place presentable. It has one floor and one ceiling and one ladder to climb to get to the wide bed. That’s where she’ll be when you make your way through the place of women Think about all you’ll need. A mop and some bags for trash and drop by the store to buy it all before you go through that place where the women are being so loud. But you don’t know about women yet. You’ll have hair. All those girls look the same. Your sister’s there too. She’s happy to see you and you are happy to see her. You won’t realize how strange this is until you get to your loft. The girls from college are there. They’re happy to see you and right away you are making plans you can’t keep. All the prettiest girls that you have sex with them are in the loud women’s space. There are a few men. They’re serving drinks and pastries and other hour eves. The one who had the child sits with her sisters just outside the door to your loft. They’re sitting in a booth. You see the girl who’s had the child and you are overjoyed. You touch her leg and she lets you and smiles and you look to her left and realize that the girl you’re touching isn’t the girl you knew but is instead her daughter. Instead of apologizing you enter your loft and the noise of the women’s place disappears. They’re still there. This is how someone let’s you know that you don’t have to worry about them coming in, seeing what a mess you’ve made The loft has shelves, usually covered in books and trash, but now all that’s gone. A sculptor is exhibiting in your loft and a tall photographer in a black suit is snapping away. You ignore each other. The loft is very clean. It’s a gallery now. It’s your gallery. You are proud.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:02 pm]
When your wife’s terms turns your stomach.

We serve brains in a clear brain sauce.

The first time I came out my grandchildren accidently sunk my yacht. The Cleo.
The first time I came out I was on a beach staring at The Cleo explaining myself away to a Captain Ron impersonator.

The first time I came out there was sand in my shoes and I had to smack the soles until the snake crawled back to its cage.

The first time I came out I bought a hot dog and didn’t appreciate the vendor’s comments.

The first time I came out I airplaned back to see the brothers Barthelme to also ask if they’d quit gambling. We had tea.

The first time I came out was just outside Mississippi’s border and Kentucky looked squareish and promising.

The first time I came out Allah barked.

The very first time I came out I had all the money in the world and had nothing to do without. Cocaine was too hard to get.

The last time I came out I bothered a brother for change and he simplified my exercise program.             

The first time I went back in I was asked to leave.

The first time I went back in I threaded a needle on the first try.

The first time I went back in the dart I threw hit the bullseye and I was blindfolded and everyone cheered.

The first time I went back in I drank a large glass of cold ice water and got a killer headache.

The first time I went back in I came out and the Weblo smelled the difference.

The first time I came I was a Weblo and shit the bed.

It was my father’s hand-me-down.

The bed was an object. The sheets were counted as two, above and below, and sucked up my cum.

The bed was a small place, a twin. An identical twin to stick my dick in.

I bled my brother harshly and kissed his eyes asleep.

I came out and found my son’s wedding ring.

Pipes upon pipes dressed their wrencher as a blinging bail.

I can find you out of jail if you give me a fucking second.


When you love blood it’s gonna get on your hands.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|07:01 pm]
As I have now absorbed the reductivist possibilities of this path I was to have seen before taken, I regret that the worst parts of this stumbling are that we enjoy it. It exists as the television of absolute time.

When do we take about small things we keep with us? Necklaces, scissors, noose snippers. Bendable magnets, tomb habits, sad-sack rabbits. Drunk Jungle lipstick, everybody’s fits. Everybody fits. In calamity, frogs sock shlock on bended knee. Were we to be free, whe’d leave on feet upon feet of federal medical slapper. Drive around some. Be [as a] child. Be free. My kidneys are failing me. Kiss me then with your friends. Kiss me with your longly gone star-crossed friends. In trying I fail to impart a presence. Ghost knives. My misspellings are the bee’s knees’, a true disaster, a happener. On a festering treed island done up with Parisian knock-offs we’d mispronounce, “pretend.”
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|06:59 pm]
A sermonette on coordination sparking sparkling acclamation. Fifty-or-so sets of hands clapping. Candlight dying as the night grows up. One more quick galaxy before we carriage. Paperboys loiter impregnating the stage directions with disorienting tension. Torsion pops perverts’ hands from their wrists. Their night-toucher hands pyramid on the pavement as the weirdos wait for the pictureshow. The churchbells curse out a sanctimonious six o’clock. Cops talk about the Balkans and Croatia is quiet save mortar shell. The theater is selling Polaroids of mountain peaks and lush valleys and barren valleys. If you tell Romulo the secret word he’ll let you beyond the velvet rope. The secret word is welcome. So then a swelling of welcomings. To Romulo the perverts whisper, “welcome” and Romulo to the perverts welcomes with “welcome.” Once all the welcomes are over Romulo shuts and locks the door and with a guest appearance by a small flashlight, he seats the perverts for the performance. The lights will go up when they must, and the curtain will rise when the time’s just right. Those whose parents haven’t passed were invited and all but Treasure the failed tailor arrived from towns far and local hours early. Romulo’s burliness was configured by runs in the park and laps in the lake.

A pervert in glasses asks another pervert in glasses if he has a good relationship with his mother. The asked pervert’s knee begins to bounce. Romulo silently mouths a few passages and puts the play down, stands, sits again, grabs the play and reads the lines again. Yet another pervert in glasses takes from his coat a steaming wrapped thing and the perverts to his left and right take notice of the steam and smell. Romulo puts the play away and mouths the lines knowing he hasn’t a chance, but will do his very best. An old orange bus creases onto the theater’s street and squeals as its movement ceases.

A fat pervert asks at no one in particular if someone can make it warmer where he is. A few perverts around him nod wishing the same. Romulo tugs at ropes behind the curtain, arranging things, mouthing his lines. The perverts are fairly docile considering their captivity. Romulo hopes none of them change their minds. He’s rehearsing his lines in his head. Good morning, boys. One strap of his overalls is caught on a lever and the curtain budges. Romulo can hear the perverts whispering and scratching at their flies. He peaks his head from stage left and finds that some of them have stood up. Some are ambling. Some sets of eyes are darting and he turns to dig through a prop-box.

The bus is leaving with one pockets-full driver and no passengers.

The travelers lug their suitcases, satchels, and grocery bags to the stage door and knock once each.

Romulo has most of the perverts back in their seats and is conducting a second go-round of The Wheels on the Bus with the half-filled air-horn. In his back pocket he keeps a rectractable measuring tape and hands it to a pervert he especially recognizes telling him–the pervert–is in charge until he returns. The pervert gestures to Romulo’s pack of cigarettes. It’s come a bit loose in his shirt pocket. Romulo wags a disapproving finger and the pervert throws drops the tape-measure.
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|06:57 pm]
If you suppose I’m a razor
I am a blister
Your centipede’s leg
Has a blister
Your jester’s insisted
The mine, the me
The A-Lister
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(no subject) [Jan. 30th, 2015|06:54 pm]
Business as usual. Chopping up lines, antagonizing the tarantula with weed smoke, fixing a butter sandwich. Holding out a hand to try and stop speeding cars. Attempting to touch time. To put a finger in it and stretch it apart.

An egg thrown against a brick wall and what of the embryo but birdseed and mineral oil. Allergic to dander and teeth. When the desert comes up in conversation it metaphors, dries up talk, and having to lie is hard enough without bringing in issues of where there is to live and where I do.

When hypnosis doesn’t work astronomy’s not the worst bedfellow.

Laptop in the washer, grenadine in the waffle batter, bitters in the apple sauce. Tapioca pudding doesn’t ask its slurper where to sit or bring a housewarming gift. The butter, however, is polite and pleased as punch to be so.
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