Friday, February 13, 2015

Glean Trout

Glean Trou

for your dream voice, exploited primal fear
synthetic over time, neutralized capture
constructed allegorical, boring oxygen whirl
Two by two, we marched to the bossa nova
tiny revolution,  absorbing the very aesthetic
go to the top and back down, all the real fun
hideaway behaviors, loosened wrath
unfit for the socialite, we actors and insurgents
coming emissions, under her dress
Chesterfield broken crosses
vehemently venomous, two teeth missing, small soul hate
heavy shoulders, a fancy little smile
transfigured attempt, that spoke of his flippancy
still waiting for the artificial, infiltrate and remember
I am dead, like a diminutive Jesus

Cold Beef

Cold Beef

Weapon wants , she purchased
to drill herself deeper/ a bit of a connection
into the bedrock, ORTHOGRAPHIC
a sizable amount of dynamite
rough-shod replica
on, scrubbing the love out of the human.

about Spain.
room service,
people are dying.
We all die for the wrong things.
It is the love for the metamorphosis.

You took the creature down
and coiled it around your neck,
still passing me the encrypted note.

pacing the tiny apartment with subpar footwear.
I can see a path being worn in the thin bare carpet.
a product of this digital age.
I pulled out the Yeats and found you at the door stoop;
you were pretending to be real –
fresh from the cement mall.
I want the hand of the maker to be seen.

Nubile Bourgeoisie

Nubile Bourgeoisie

they have saucers in their eyes, wiping blood
smoking opium, communist manifesto
you wait, into the void of desperation, blood, uterus brain
piano stool, as Tonya’s ass, to defend, needing a fix, orbital dance
leaves you, the walls give in, as this life swallows, from banging
in the rear of the saloon, hanging over the beam, this fake democracy
you whole, to the butcher, as far as Chicago
sheer lunacy, skeletons tightly packed, laughing eyes
the mossy Hamburg , in her closet, snouted brutes, of the Holy Ghost
with beer trumpets and bent needles, her mother’s muff
for her pickled meats, to know that I was dead

A Note on Pathos

Weak feelings of foreclosure, one breath high upon the pile
a monumental steamroller, underneath, while the crowd shouts for more
eating flesh, pulling the flesh, smashing everything down, eviscerate
incited agenda, want to dissect, everyone who stood
you feel nothing, to lose everything, emotions through, and the distance grows
no internal apocalyptic, never loved, evil compelled by logic
the numbness, a rejection of everything, furrowed people
and care about nothing, the strive, the purpose, the agenda
struggling within, to die once more, dead in their eyes
this creeps upon, from her lips, with bright eyes and darkened souls
you, recognizable soul, slow corrosion, I nail you to the floor,
crawls up the back, the forces of good and evil, bloodthirsty ghoul
and takes you with the wildness, never inhabited, under the devious face
by surprise, raised in your own image, they do lie, falling asleep
with capacity, chewing your heart, here to trick you, to fold
the most important, turns to the mouth, seeing darkness, into little creatures
you feel nothing, hoisted white flags, plastic spreading sickness
or capacity for empathy with anyone else, giving the flame
you become a blind and brutal force, a proxy for freedom, for execution, sick like you
that has no direction, burying your head, breathe in the dark as the others sleep
or destination, swallowed, engulfed, feeling the blood, out into the streets.