Hey, well, here we are again, late for work and parking our ASSES in each other's FACES for pleasure, well for your pleasure.

If I grew a few more inches I could reach the ceiling of blood, pushing past the pussy boils that are begging for lancing, and there stands mother always looking over my kneecaps and ranting about Geraldo, Luke Eisenstien and the Decline of Best Western. And as I would be grewing, I would take the time to feel my bones knitting together, pulling new calcites from the marrow, which, by the way, is working OVERTIME, you could jam a carrot into the marrow of your brain-bone and come up with better blood, let the pathogens say what they will, there's no tomorrow for the new YOU.

And really, as far as ceilings go the blood one is the best in terms of RESILIENCE and its very quiet too, like all Americans abroad, because, is it ashamed? of what it hath wrought, like the very American you will be when you set foot on French?, well, it's more of a ZEN pain that fronts like a Motley Crue video, something delicious but searing and if you've been to bed you know that what I'm talking about is natural as far as the eye can squirt, and that pain can be a relief to those whose lives are filled with meaningless pennies of unelastic nothingnessed boredom, pain is a freedom from the trough that keeps dropping deeper so your neck must adapt on the fly and elongate to reach the oats which are rotten at the never-ending bottom anyway.

You think of troughs and ceilings that forever recede and you sigh "is this another Borgesian" "PHANTASY" or is this something that's real from the heart of grace and beauty, or did this spring from some ecstatic well-font of esotericness, some pulpy zit filled with magic and chrsyanthemums? Does the brilliant mind seek its target as doth the arrow? or does it seek as a mole the mysterious treasure that may or may not exist in the dirted pit beneath it? Do moles seek treasure? Does an arrow fly? Or does it move in a frozen wasteland filled with Brian Zeno movies? The questions of a warped mind meet with the answers of emptiness in a martini-drenched pool party in Hollywood and there we rub our genitals against the best of Carrie Fisher and, oh, I don't know, Meg Ryan? Let there be something ILLEGAL, let there be leitmotifs, grandiose resounding canons that repeat your very name in the night, rebounding against the towering giants of the silver screen, let your name bounce off Humphrey Bogarts gigantic penis, let your very spirit and its attendant bones come off Bruce Willis like an immense Shake and Bake, let the popcorn kernels of your neverending boundlessness resonate upon the galactic brain pan of Admiral Halsey and the Olson Twins, LET LET LET IT ALL REIGN DOWN ON TINSEL TOWN AND LET YOUR OMNIPOTENCE BE THE CROWN THAT ALL OF STARDOM WILL WEAR IN ITS FINAL HOURS OF SEX AND LIBERTY AND DANK DISGUSTINGNESS THAT WILL FOREVER PERVADE THE BALUSTRADES OF OPERATIC CINEMATOGRAPHY AND THE CRIMES OF PERVERSELY TWISTED GENII IN WHOSE VERY HANDS THE FATES OF VARIOUS UNIVERSI REST IMPATIENTLY AWAITING THE BLINDING BOREDOM OF THAT NEFARIOUS NEVERENDING NOTHINGNESS!

A mystery in pieces

grenadine, saliva, morphine.
colostomy bag, quinine, pablum. mes
caline, quarantine, grable.
minnen, juniper, justine
bateman, kool aid (purple), glucose.
freon, milkweed, whoreshound.
baskerville, peons, lice,
razors, hunting gear, queef recording.
happy meal, licorice ball, mucous wand,
port, creamed testicles, hallucination tablet,
hologram manual, mirror, smoke.
penis wax, pencil thin moustache.
gouache, butt tape, the end.

Such wheeled-in crystalline poop
spurting froth frottage a la simian-
I was hastened to snap a quicky
on my walkie-talkie snapshooter:

The backlit sunlight bent a crucible
of pure manganese through the bars
Of the zoo-pits- a glint off golden
Tooth and a burnt cornea...

Later, the coffee sloshing in the mug,
the eyes bled and shot, the warden
Nudgin' the nurse with his mandate,
I eyed your fringed misty slip
and barked a chunky chuckle at the
thoughts of our zooey antics.

That was then, in a slatted barnhouse
near the cockatiels and near the impish
Owls- they dove and bombed at the
baby birds, bleeding throughout the day-

And in this now, as you there go,
Clutching at the knob and clawing at the tile,
And here I am, waiting for the hammer
to claw through my chest in a vain search
For a hold- g'luck, but no.

A blathering dolt pellet
Squirtled out of his ear,
Leaving a mellifluous stain
On her superfluous blouse.

The house rang with the shock
Of a million volts as god protested
Their love and threw down big
Bolts like deadly Mardi Gras beads.

Their atheist neighbors trembled
And imagined an earth trembling
Under the weight of slack black columns
Of poisoned corporate air

And washed their dogs fervently
In a flurry of hedonistic paranoia-
Then god laughed, took a swig from
His gestalt liquor and stroked his hammer
And pointed down at the mayhem:

"You goddamned bitches better
Not front, I'ma get all up in ya
Jimmy-jams and blast y'alls asses"
He roared and passed out in a pool of halos.

See how they get "better" and more "poetic"?

It's called "progress" and it's "real".

As ballast we used a word hitched to the protectorate
And hoisted high that fancy cannon which shot glee forth
Like sugared butter from its frothy mouth-

And set out, with politicians fueling the balloon,
A lily-encrusted chamber pot primed for action,
And promptly we hid in the clouds.

Accumulating in the cottoned bushes we spoke of
Vietnam and Antietam
While taxpayers threw grizzly scalped mullets
And frayed propaganda pamphlets at us,
Upsetting the pollsters and causing the first ladies to weep.

There in the clouds, we, the king-makers, the rain bringers,
Jockeyed for position, who best to man the binoculars looking
Down into George Clooney's perfumery? Who best to beset
Their speech-writers on the tribulations of this nation's great tributaries?
And who best to pull the puds of the gas-spouters rigged to the foremast
And triggered to the jerk-knee bone of society?

As our self-adulation grew exponential in the mist our lookouts
Became embroiled in the debate of who was the greatest syphillis dodger
Amongst us and we lost sight of all that is grand and guignoly, namely
The Blackened Hand of God slashing down from on high to twist
Our sails into anchors and plummet us into the waiting fray
Which pounced like maggots on rotting meat, rending, masticating, rending.

And here we sit, immortal and molecular, the pure food of those who
Just so recently
Allowed us to ride on their broken backs
Into the sunset backdrop of our choosing,
So recently turned on us, so unappealable, so unsatiable,
They chaw right through us so ignominiously, us, us nobility.

Work Day

A piece of monkey meat
Slipped from her lips
Into the vat of baby food
As the metal walls
Reverberated with the
Sound of the gigantic
Banana peeling itself into
The shape of a skeleton.

The foreman nodded and
Checked the appropriate box
With his double penis.

Abortion

A Christian wind flustles
up and snatches away the
paper this poem is being
wri

I couldn't pull myself away
From the enchanted toilet
That kept magically flushing and filling
With blood from the hospital
Next door
Even though
The siamese mime
Waltzed nearby
Screaming the flesh
Off of the transgendered
Priest with no bones

A Nice Poem

Try as he might
the trapdoor in the sandbox
wouldn't open
as he swung gustily from the rope beneath
the children played noisily above
farting and giggling
at the balloon vendor
near the pond.

Is he coming?
We wondered
as the barometer
fell and our hopes
turned to sweat
and the blinds began
to spin towards our parched veins
and blood shot from
our pores
across the room
onto the canvas
stretched there for this very purpose.

If there's not enough nakedness
I start to get itchy
And will grab at a malewoman
Until they scream their clothes off

As midgets wrestle with dogs' penises
The wind sprickles liquid nits on our faces
I shyly grab at your neck
And lovingly clamp your hands behind your back

The freckles on your cheek turn pale, then green
As I suck each one in turn like seeds
From a watermelon
The midgets drop their dicks in the rushing water, slowly

Turning their vivid midget eyes to us
As I wind my tongue around your head
And rest my feet with a tender caress
On your breasts
And recite the writings of William F. Buckley Jr.

To you until you cry.

The late afternoon sun
Ah, fuck it, it was dreary
Will you turn to face it
Like a depressed seedling
Wiggling slowly through trashheaps
And puke to reach for a poisioned pen
And scratch your mark on the winding eyes
Of the Dancing Dying?

Manifesto

To destory the normelle ideas of poetry

NOT

Because there is ennything WRONG with poetry

BUT

Because there is nothing WRITE with pottery.

There's your motherfucking poem, asshole.