As I exit toward the light
does it show – is it too obvious
my distaste for swarms anthills...?
cast out outcast
filtering the saccharine garbage
the parochial sanctimonious fecal prurient rampage
of snorting blurred shapes
that scabrous ambiguous lurked.
the angry giggles that snaggedly flowed from the dumb assholes
the toiling maggots underground
their meaningless jottings
their pinguid pigments splattered on the pungent spice of the floor
as they shuffled and shuffled along
chatting and chatting no end.
also the girls – their wombs
their wombs – uttering those excruciating screams
of weeping sarcasm against the teeming crotches
and then the blinding objects foolishly deemed to protect them
those bogus wedges athwart their transpierced chests
them chorally groaning against the weight
of so much unuttered script above their thoraxes.
agape and thrall-less their sparkling cunts
crusading in a barrage of squeals of blasphemy for the ultimate victory
of their outlawed god.
breathing hard now
as my polished cock boldly thaws
all their icy scorn – layers upon frozen layers
accumulated over centuries of forced burial
and accelerated spoilage on bended knees
shivering for fear and...
for fear and cold
crushed on the corners
on the corners of the underground.
we fought with our backs against the ceiling
listlessly wooing disaster
tottering tortoises of a doomed world
speeding toward an exploding sun
our wills won – here it stood unscrambled our ceiling
our dissipated traits
as though after a too protracted orgasm
collapsing into the faces of gargoyles...
they muttered first and then openly barked
fingering my marmorean face that “I’m too willful
aloof” the censorious women
rebuking my stance – their udders steadily pawed during the alarms
now deflated by safety.
no longer dazzled by their meretricious beauty
chug along worthless rake
and lift your cyprian eyes toward the exit
from whence the sky hangs...
for there’s nothing else for you to do down here
now that the bombs have stopped and the women won’t pawn
their replenishing vitality for a bit of skillfully provided venting
of their jammed triggers
the haven has sunk to the sorry sight of levels ordinary
I’m too bored with normal people
this subterranean setting
formerly if fleetingly so exciting now lacks all...
lacks all kind of enticement
has got no lushness and no...
goading nor spurring nor...
I came out of the bombed tunnel
ran shrill the cats – no longer awed and silent
and I had left my dad dead
leaning on a wall of the subway
he had become suddenly incoherent
talking about almonds – his rambling phrases
how it was not entirely proper to eat almonds in bed
the gnawing the sticky crumbs
I realized he was dying – I had opened my questioning mouth
he was looking at me without a trace of recognition
and as I went to hold him he was already dead
a lump leaning on a wall
with the oblivious women crumpled all around
yearning for hands
for thirsty eager hands
and me slithering
a cat silent and industrious
to a fault...
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
So easy then slipping into the smooth
Behold at the mirror the executioner
or else stay
behold instead the bookish fellow
as he shuffles his way down the plank
or is it up to the gaping gallows
or flat and bumpy to the shooting wall
or is he laid already atop the dying scaffold?
He was certainly happier while he wrote
(what nobody ever read).
He sees himself again
a haste of paws
tentacles from a morbid vessel yearning for voyages
the guts of the compass rose rose to face the storm
the guts spread
nasty exposed clams
whose catagmatic glue the melancholy drift can’t keep other
Magnetic were the slumbers
in the idle darkness
exhausted regrouped the airy martyrs
whose corpses such cravings
erstwhile all exhibited.
the sails knocked about like papers swept away
squealing against the ambush of the winds
Fading into the lower depths
while the hypnagogic voices wailed
no hindrance spooky enough to
with its writhing tentacles stop
the everlasting intrusion into the...
“just jottings” – the bookish fellow tells them –
“the darling swirlings of the smoke.”
To death he clung
in dark forebodings of death sunk
forebodings of death
to whom he clung
dearest friend above all
above all his imaginary friends
in broodings sunk
dumb womb of his hammering head
his teeth ached all the time.
Why the heartache?
people die all the same
such matter-of-factness dying
brooding fiery diatribes
in soliloquies that were damned morologies
by dint of sheer will
in his ultimate pyre burned
while flung by wind-swept hands wept the wind.
a dearth of stamina in my pushing
for want of pluck
I’ve been abandoned
and now I’m also lame
and the two fat women pity me
and the effeminate artistic boy
is concerned that my letter-box never resounds anymore
with the dropping of anybody’s missive
and I’m told furthermore that the landlord is after me
his intentions angrily plain: eviction
eviction for my debts.
lack of funds to want of pluck added
a sorry happy go-lucky marginal nobody
out of me.
with roughly sixty percent of my organs still in sync
I tell myself: you bastard, enjoy
enjoy your freedom
nobody else around can say the same:
abandoned lame avoided evictable...
never now all those lunarian flights postponed
what a wealth of health
still to spend
aloft and elsewhere
where the storms are less fierce
the women never run away
the removal of tawdry veneers as easy as a flush of clear water
the obnoxious flairs of the knowledgeable easily dispensed with
and afraid, afloat, the several objects strewn by the roaring waves
the wind buffeting hither and thither the tacky superfluities
the moons and satellites hilariously bumping into each other
the whole wreckage such fun?
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