longing desperately for something mucous to cling to
(while kicking the bucket where the acid foams.)
goons again ferreting me out
the lackey whose hickeys and nail-trails and bleeding rib rubs were self-inflicted
a crow plucked by strange hands
from the hat rack of whose fruit
whoso tastes retches and gags.
on the verge of falling prey to the motherfuckers’ grasp
a disruption at the brisk epicenter of my awful dream.
I had had short ejaculations whenever I awoke
I had yelled: Mom, mom, mother!
I had screamed: That’s it, that’s it, I’m dead, I’m dead!
legs of a prawn a cricket a cockroach a scorpion a spintrian crustacean
whose feelers he tweaks with the vaguest of notions
picking up and in depth
the splendidly jejune sonority of the shimmering night radio waves
he stops awestruck
riveted by the unbearable pedantry
that masks in vain
what nonetheless the thick fart-impregnated air is really pregnant of
the patent destiny of nothingness
that awaits the whole of the crew...
he can’t sort out the truth
from the slush
the spree of sly crimes signed by the escapees from the criminal asylum
echoes of ripe celluloid
the entire psychotic panorama maims his (the spintrian crustacean’s)
and my (how would one call it
his crustacean legs and my eyelashes interlaced
copulating having... intercourse...?
quit gloating at my astonishment I said.
no guns allowed
just fiddling with the money machine
walking leisurely along the alleys of the park at night
later reading at home
lithe or petrified
peonies shattered or were they incrusted crystals?
off-piste the enthralling pearls of meteorology
usher now the lewd wrecks of a hypnotic reproach
my featherbed where we the shmuck rot
on file the trial and tribulation
of that night
soon blotted out as were the preceding ones
where the gnomes and their wry satchels (of weak goo made)
fluted away vanished
leaving behind trails stern evocations
of the furbishments of the esthete whose thorn at the side
it is to flash the sizzle of past nights
splayed spliced in the conflicted high jinks of tonight.
everyone of the enjoyers and sufferers the same stand-in for myself
a remote cynical swaggering accountant (of grim mush made.)
of the armed bureaucrats knocking downstairs
or rather smashing the door
turned up to slaughter the soft maids of my dreams.
faintly linger the qualms
my accountability of the last crime looming as a monument of steel
grown from the ground up
as a baleful cenotaph
it is inhabited a mausoleum
vast where I’ll awake and vouch
to holler more sparsely...
the bulbul flees from my embrace
while a moistness spreads.
am I crying?
have I shitted myself?
aren’t you yet fed up to shack up
with the oozing corpses of who you were?
there’s no greater virtue than to yet be inosculated to yesterday
razed village where only the blabbering slavering idiot obdurately remains
inanely again sighing relief.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
who’ll anchor in vapid mournful longing
the moldering throes of another fledgling carrion
after the war meanders into abysses of lunatic entropy?
who’ll exploit in maudlin rills of silly zeal
the nightmarish afterglow that smoldering destruction
after the welter of oblivion exuberantly inaugurated new morasses
where the feeblest Venuses
and the hardy ones survived only as comminatory harpies
as hags turned visceral germs in the quagmires and chasms
of our bloated midriffs
epitomes of maximum cowardice?
who’ll undescore now in girlish crimson whimpers
that all had been a boring hoax?
who’ll dare put in scene the waning skeletal steed
of surrender wagging its mangy tail at the rubble?
who’ll rub it in gloating at the spectacle
frowning rashly at the balmy foliage
of gone yellowing films
after we are told flatly that you certainly didn’t need to rescue
who’ll be daunted enough and chastised and in awe
after the crux has been revealed
to be another broken pile of rotting wood
a pledge to cheat you again
another empty promise all told
that only the fluffy-minded swallowed
in the first place anyhow?
who’ll be the next moron to shrug loud and boisterous the whole mess away?
who’ll slake the still elated womb?
who’ll stave off the ebb and flow of slime
after the null the leapers smote?
who’ll usurp the crawl of the scorpion
after the finicky critics the hairsplitting critics are too shriveled
to aim their gustatory polyps at the bristles of my rectum or yours?
I say never
I’ve been saying never for a while
count me out
definitively infinitely forever out.
...I hear they are still irking
The hemorrhoidal masses
With the soft sleazy shit of creationism...
...only in Merkin would anybody
Try to pass for science
A stupid belief
Garnered from an old book of idiocies
Written by bloodthirsty witlings...
...everywhere else in the “free” world
(Free from religious mumbo-jumbo)
All those turdsucking creeps
Would be laughed out of office
And maybe with any luck
If not jailed right away as they should
For cheating the public
Robbing them of their only shreds
At least temporarily committed to some asylum
...only in Merkin
Whose politicians are lousy fleas
In a discarded mangy merkin
Would anybody waste
Time and money passing that
Stone that chokes the neck
Of those that are drowning
That dead deadly dud
That makes them sink lower
And more hopelessly down into
The hell by them themselves created
(Always helped by a creating god
Of hells uncountable...)
...and the “audience”
With their swill-swallowing mouth
Eager it seems for more shit
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