american. blow your brains out and run
to the hills, die of dysintry just-like
the same dream every night.
that i didnt raise a . . .
all of that work. and now look at it.
what to do? and it died anyway.
blue and purple bloated with rubbing-fingered flies,
and wriggling satisfied maggots.
american. standing around this empty
house. sore lips from biting.
once it passes and i think about the bitch.
she did this. encouraged it. let it happen.
its not my fault he didnt know
not to blow his brains out. the rest of them
holding public vigil. snow falls, candlelight,
merry Christmas, white blanket
to cry a deeper red, a robin’s breast.
theyre like him. it.
the guns in the cabinet. one in the drawer.
light it up. watch.
american. so i take the gun like cold blue heaven
and take the streets, shoot them in the back like
doing God’s work. one day . . .
no, no dream. first the freaks,
then the fags,
then the bitches.
gun them all down.
american. standing in the empty street
populated by the corpse of
degeneracy. God’s work. no dream.
plane trails like fork-dragged-through the sky,
cut fingers pressed against cotton, bleeding through.
sore lips from biting.
reeling back af.ter shot thru head.
by cop piggy gun fuck, thru head.
hiding away fr.om shadow-fygure;
and toy train set near.by: go fygure;
they killed my dog. the fuckers.
they killed my
it was i who call.ed
they took my innisense.
found and stripp’d.
waiting for the final shot/thru head
better than sit.ting.aro.und
thinkin bout ho.w you an’t
neber going to sing, newey.
found and stripp’d.
fucking pigs kill’d my dog.
go fygure. woe. wo.
As crossing like six boundaries what is wrong […]
This One’s Up to Me
As crossing like six boundaries what is wrong;
This street builds too much, executed
Actions; But wait; But see the cross’d line
That made a troubl’d, dancing fool — idiocy
To think this old mare would bare to face
The old line you pared. You thought yourself a snowman (moron)—
Yet there was a laughing girl, and a
Boy with a brain full o’ shit. To be expected
When a brain o’ shit is a brain full o’ salt like mine.
Tell me not, you young fool:
Your experience . . . is naught but a gnat to a god.
In all crystal honey.
Thy rude fortitude is but a joke I now smirk at:
Counting down to Oblivion.
Yet, melting-ever is your evermask and evermore—
Your laughter is a worrisome task, and backed
Up on heaps of crud, and rotten filth; so carry
The filth inside, and cast it to the wooden panels
That are loath to bear your burden of bare
Loathsome ghostweight. For tho you have iron
In your blood, like the rest, you are gone:
—and yeah, there’s the stinker, right in the—
Gone! Gone! I do naught but cackle
Like an idiot, wasted god.
Now, die: die! Feel dead! For thee . . .
Come neath my roof and settle sweetly like a bairn
Basking in nearlife cooter-uterus and be calm agen.