Sunday, December 18, 2011

the death of script

I can't go kicking this rusty blade no further
we can all name ourselves smurves
when the terrors of modernity seem quaint
plash of water
monumental tree trail
tripple faggot
only god xemself
short buff gay
agog in 8 ft waves
of totally tubular efflorescence
remembers those empassioned tweets
on the theme of cursive handwriting

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

[WAR MESSAGE!] we dont want yr tools

(for CAConrad on the escalation of troops)

look gentlepeople
the only source of likelihood
is a fist in a gentle orifice
if I’da been a ranch
they’da calld me bar none
a fecund desert
full of heartless so-and-sos
the tub of butter thereafter was rancid
we put xir and xir mouth ta rest
along with the chickens in our maw
hey blood, hey sucka
as like to one as to th’other
do you love your sibling
as they do as they do

Thursday, August 19, 2010

the pit of tutivillus

todo el tiempo quelque new atrocity
met by flies
the seer wit understanding
almost undercut hir prophecy

my muzzle will be made of moss
in the whinter
you think it’s music but it’s like lilies when they fester
all ovular moonlight tusking the apparatus

when I say lily I do mean the same
each arm asway on tender footing
swete my sweteing
who alone is burning plastics

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

whose brainpan literally creaturely

on the contrary come up simpering (Paolo Javier) / crickets are not giving each other feedback. crickets are not not giving each other feedback. (Filip Marinovich) / I am a hammerhead shark / a pair of milky eyes that refuse to triangulate. (Sueyeun Juliette Lee)

who on the contrary come up simpering
creating whole deadzones in the gulf
a legality therefor
bristleing the loam
1000s and 1000s of patches of oil
and water and oil plumes found
under the gulf’s surface the oil &
gas together literally devouring
oxygen which levels currently (7 june 2010) at
3 miligrams per litre animals begin to be
stressed at 2 mg per litre so it is soon becom
ing a ded zone. the ocean is dead long live
the ocean! metrology
in place of the porgy
seasonique advertising four periods a year
“who says that time of the month has to be every month?”
who says that time has to be
everytime detritus? kids screaming “go meat!”
can I pay you in gum? shore littered w/ dead
greeks, dead dolphins, dead pelicans, seagulls
unrecognizable as living or dead, creatures
made crude while humans
flock to see sex & the city islamophobia
and queer appropriation
can I pay you in gum? it’s good for consuming media
the first synthetic lifeform “cynthia” pronoun it, created by a computer
bull horn thru
the toreadors throte
a wizened creature nonetheless
who skins perspective but the humans they
had got quite profligate
no sauce nor sustenance de-access-sessioning
the fishes from the very day they witheld
their greeting from me the manatee become
the mentor to shut the person down & render
thir attack therefore

Saturday, January 23, 2010

to be kush is not to be chronic

to be kush is not to be chronic
I'd lay all my ganger upon it

that twerps are most like
to be ethical creatures

it only leaked inordinantly
my time stricture had a habit

wanton until noon
wel cd they speke englysshe

polymorphously, it's the juice
n I stand by my ambivalent sidekick

beat up for being the wrong kinda pretty
outlander skeeters suck after

Sunday, May 31, 2009

FYI ppl

the hoi polloi = the the people
and et cetera = and and other things

Thursday, April 23, 2009

of mongrelitude

A bed of roses itself is no bed of roses. Nobody wants an e-book, they would sooner leave you in the lake, a den of mouldering slime for your coffin. Everbody calling it a recession—theyr in a delusion. I am privy to these contradictory situations where I am told first the one and then the other bathroom is the wrong one. Madame, c’est là! and then o monsieur! je me suis tromper! If I powder my nose in the tudes, if I choose to walk barefoot in the small hours…you yourself are a healing property you know. You came home from the fair only to join the circus its festal moods, to feast on frost. So one learns to make thir way among the multitudes. And know bliss as a cowperson.

I know I am the small fry here. Whose harnassed thot drove winter aback, gos wrastlin thir daemon underground. Tho the stirrups brinked and tha mud was broke, I looked down to the rivulet between the tracks, and couldn’t tell if what I saw was a turd or twisted rust metal. & the rats rooting amid the black death and the typhus. One comes out steppin, their eyes fallen on the shores, cognizant only to the trash they mucked around. Suddenly you and your neighbours thighs are pressed together, accidental camaraderie or blunt eroticism. And neither of you move away.

We race toward the mounds of gravel, the morning star met with its wanderer.