Peach pits make good charcoal –
I cut out medical illustrations of hamstrings and vertebrae
under soft petaled blue light
A collage to rearrange my misplaced nerves.
I bite carnivorous into nectarine flesh
Juice drools slutty splats to sticky the floor below.
I do not lap it up:
My tongue’s desertion
of salivary mingling
gums hungry for residue
Vocal cords look like pussy
And peach pits look like wrinkled brains
Neocortex, cerebellum
sayeth Gross Anatomy shreds
I tong the grooves glowing sunrise sunset
enflamed mutation to ember
to core burning form
memory of being
till they dim to ashen utility
Smudged and resmudged infinite two dimensionality
drawing and redrawing my body’s boundaries.
Here is the spine,
Here is the sacrum,
Here is the location of the pain.
New research and youtubers say trauma is stored in the hips.
but mine won’t give up their secrets
as easily as the peach does its pit.
Give it Back
Which do you prefer:
a star studded sky
or moon clouds drifting by?
I prefer the clouds
and the rain
(if it rains)
And I’ll take my coffee black
with the non-dairy milk
without the upcharge
I am not a registered camper
And I do not vote
And I won't fill out the survey
or leave a review.
I’ll take the long way
That looks shortest on the map
If anyone asks
I got here from outer space
And I had to take a nap.
following the path of motion of the feeling of falling, cant get into a dream too deep spiral down if
theres more otherwise whats that in your chest? that feeling of being able to grasp what
fearlessness, what wandering, what night time power does. chase it chase it to a wisp. squirrel
scurry in backyard distress. I want to try every door L-E-T-M-E-I-N. I will peddle them sometimes
on sometimes off electrostatic joy. That is that is the noise. Not like the stuff on the record player
which I can explain but ourselves dripping messily thru. Please remain some fragment some
reason to be rained on again. I do not want to return to the crocheted dog sweaters shame of a
morning walk same neighborhood as fuck. Nosebleed, stubbed knees, I still have my keys.
East Coaster Blues
Why would the wind blow so hard if it ain't gonna rain?
Sittin in the rollin side of a car blowin kisses to palms instead of pines down the side of one hill and back up the other.
The air takes your breath away and don’t give it back, not even when you’re six states gone by. The air is worse out here. Vacuum-cleanered lawns and nothing washed especially scrotal sacs and crooked cocks.
Boogie bustle where’s the weird? And when should I take these drugs? And how do I talk to her?
The imagery out here: sprinkler tick. Tock. Rats in tree trunk corridors. Powder (green). Powder (protein). Powder (sand). Computer screens glow ghoul skulls scrolling.
Rest stop fills with roaches lodged high on heat-activated legs. On speed higher than injection up the jugular. They have achieved the dream: trash can no janitor will empty, jump jump jump above blanketed deader bug bodies below. Lurkers turn their eyes to the freaks from their corner.
Surprises. Pleasant. Irritable.
Stinky horse fuck records will melt in the sun before the other vinyl does.
I would prefer nursing a heat-stroked blood-clotted puss-swelled stiffy to AC-Lazy quarantine.
Pissed: eternally. As in drunk. As in pissing. As in mad.
Noise: offensive. To your ears and absent from mine.
Connective tissue: used too many times.
I do not like what I see.
The campfire crackles and Geezer sneers. Coughs up a lung blackened red. Spits. Leers. Lyrical.
I miss I regret I regress I depress succulent spike speared steaks
I fill my plate.
BITTEN FLOWER HEADS
THE RADIATORS DO NOT BURN YOU
THE LSD IS WHISPERED
THE AFFAIRS ARE FINISHED
PEOPLE HUNG THEMSELVES HERE
THERE ARE SO MANY DEAD SHAPES HERE
THERE ARE WIDE STREETS WITH NO STREETLIGHTS
THERE IS MURK THERE IS DEAD THERE IS NIGHT
DOUBLE YELLOW PAINT BUT NO CARS
MEN ON THEIR PORCHES SILENTLY
ALCOHOL LIKE LEAD IN EVERY STOMACH EIGHTEEN TO FORTY
SAME GREY-HAIRED MINDS AND NOOSED NECKS
ADDERALL LIKE ROCKS
THERE IS A HUNDRED YEAR WAIT IN EVERY PUFFED FACE
THERE IS A HUNDRED YEAR WAIT FOR THE HARBINGER
THE WILDFLOWERS DO NOT STOP GROWING
THEY PEDAL AGAINST THE SIDE OF NOVEMBER
THEY PUSH BACK PURPLE
THEY PUSH BACK NOVEMBER
A HUNDRED YEAR WAIT AT THE ELECTION BOOTH
TO VOTE FOR DONALD TRUMP
Masonna 1 17 AM
They want the lights off.
They want to hear the hard stuff.
They want to freak;
The animal in the middle is freaking.
They want to get into it because the animal is into it.
They want to get into it because the animal is funny.
The animal is fingering space between them with declawed hands.
The animal sinks unbared fangs where their mouths are not meeting.
The middle is moving—
They can take about thirty minutes of this.
They can take about thirty minutes of this.
They can take about thirty minutes of this;
They need a minute; the animal gives.
These are the make sport days,
These are the make shift days,
The animal asks
Where are the smashed clock days.
Sweet-tooth he
Mean little he, mean black teeth;
enameled metallic swallowed low:
boredom stardom dom dom dumbed.
Panic has teeth, panic has gums;
mouth smacking mock mock mugged.
He is meatless, he has hands;
he gropes gaping pulped wombed flesh.
He guts gaping pulped wombed flesh.
Mean black black, blacker than black;
mean black claws in everything opened;
spread screamed to glinted he;
a glint and a blood; sweet sweet.
Oding to cavity, I, cavity.
Little mean he, cavity.
