Sunday, August 5, 2012

Murder Every Leg You Can Stand On: A Book of Children's Verses

Author's Note:  Actual copies of this book will be available soon, fully illustrated.

Prologue for Ambitious Young Sailors

Audacious children in the face of so many winds you fought to assert.
Blistered by the myth of snowflakes unique,
Children of America, narrate the shared disaster you seek.
Doom yourselves past love,
Take such as dust as grows as gales!
What still sails has strength to make us unhappy.
In a life rabid with transmission-nauseas,
The soul, venomously dynamic, precipitates pirated machines;
And so after rioting in the bedsheets of the indebted streets,
Punish yourselves seeking bouquets & treats.

Children, don’t grow up deadly & happy.
At age 5, burn the house down your parents grew up in.
Throw your own self out into the plaid warm skirt of a Siberian night
& pick up that flashlight pirates cracked open your mother’s head with.
Let the wolves tear out your father’s breasts
Like office clocks from the concrete of life’s biznizz parks.

Children, full with the mild lung’s stone of smoke,
Return to port and murmur, “O my soul is wrong!
The broken water is a berth of mourning with whom nothing lasts or dawns!”

In the interstellar cold of America, the mother-country’s crotch,
Wear thermal-pants like scratched, fucked CD-Rs.
Keep on drawing your shitty flowers & houses.

Children of the machines! Children of the rubber rudder!
Children who seek only butter to lube life’s udder!
Clean the metal of the hatch of your dead mother’s poop-deck snatch!
Children sleep cool in nauseous bunks
Dreaming of treasure hidden in BMW trunks.
All your blood for the spin of the wheel shrill & alive!
It’s not disgrace if your impotence appears on the news at 5.

In an explosive unit
Polish yr nails & faces.
Unbutton yr crotches with the noise of a crane.
From the bottom of the chimney of yr industrial heart
Raise & reveal erect yr floured-genitals of arriving goods timely in distress,
O plangent, how u really hope nothing will ever change.

Children of America, you are self-servicing gas stations
Stealing everything you have!
Children of America, don’t you fucking love yr PTA!
Get drunk Children of America, ram yr trustfunded
Car into the Mother’s Against Drunk Driving Nanny-State Center!
Die like gumball machines squirting STDs
All over yr broken windshields and torn dashboards.

Fuck yr heart’s yellow hi-liter with a dead wolf’s dingleberries.
Are you alone in yr hermitage of remembered Halloweens?
Politicians are homeless gloryholes.
Gandhi & Tolstoy can suck our vacuum-aborted
Peace like a pokerface of wedding-rings.
Pigeons rent shitty lofts in the crosstraffic of my wandering tears.
I’ll always remember I’d come to love you.
My tears of Do-Not-Litter street signs
Will not let all my lawns be clean & forget
With my Anonymous-msg-board of wide-open arms.

Children of America, I hope your lives won’t amount to the price of tennis shoes.
I hope you get brainwashed by upholstery day after day.
May you never say this right here
This is the exact motherfucker
I always ever wanted.

“Apocalyptic Thoughts”

One saffron, refried day our planet will have its last fling
In the shape of a used condom’s outline.
Until then I ride the bicycle like a hangover from work
& Fingers long enough to be drawn-out fairytales
Scratch the back of the illustrated day, demanding no reciprocity.

A saxophone of doors will be there,
Constructed of fuck-lacquered dollar bills.
2 dogs made out of tin will bark out ordered puzzles
& Rip the roots like witch-hair silently of all the trees.
As usual, somebody will find a dead body
Or die themselves dying to be found.

Chairs & love are immediate things
& only ass can keep them there,
But everyone can go sit on the future
And mean a toilet as the end.

"My Newest Country Song Fully Mature With So Much More of the Same"

A blank, hoped moon
On the hills made hot yellow with piss.
A wet yellow desert in which I fight down
Food and alcohol in the hopes of sleep--
Sleep, the most comfortable of all waiting rooms
With the best of all possible flower arrangements.

When I was a child, I wet the bed every night.
And now that I've fought so hard to preserve joy
By maintaining the terror of childhood, 
The inevitability of faces returns 
& on the dark interior streets
Which resist sweeping by no matter what amount of weeping,
Everything wets itself like a fucking dolphin to go down easy.

"Futuristic Wedding Scenes Preempted by Scenario-Planning"

--"I'd throw myself out that window, if I wasn't sure it would hurt."--Sammy Beckett

There's a desolate cookie white in my face & I dislike it anymore.
Where do candles go in distress of remembrance & gutter?
Morning lacerates and eyes grow darker.

Some form of acceptance, give me
something else not accepted, given to be given again & back
Let me feel blank
like a heartbeat of new paper
thoughtless & insistent
as a cinema screen

Lean animals yield the toughest gut.
I, lukewarm rotting a barbwire larch,
Am a sudden piece of glass,
Bladed skin tantruming in a musicbox at night.

And they, the frozen clock-spit
Throw themselves like gray rats and dead-bearded 
Burning fathers, weeping the illuminated ass-breeze
Of noble self-sacrificial prostitution, down like gas fumes
Or snakes to tremble repeatedly
Between the legs of technocratic cashsucker aerobic instructors.

Birds tremor gunmetal in the avalanche-basilica.
High voltage sleet splits the banshee-perch of deadbolt, damnation.
I am a cartoon of wedding garters,
Pinned to the treedreck sky like pollen
From the pendant housecat of god,
And the harp plays a mouth from the shaled wall at night,
the harp a rhetoric of flies and catgut fathers.

The door closed behind,
And behind was cold everything
That had been burning forward
And ahead was cold approaching
To everything left burnt behind.

“It’s This Way With Me”

In this great office building grey as a scheduled overcast,
I begin severing all ties & in horror no less for having
Should have known, see they were always perhaps wearing clip-ons.
Piñata-breaking across the automobile-infested lawn, a new calendar dawns overhead
Dropping a confetti of shredded papers you could have written
Anything on, anything but more salaries, plans, and expenditure-flows.

Sewage!  It too flows blind as bats to port
Or foully caves underground, speeding to fall away
By echoing the located-dark into seeing itself resound.
And I, even more, decompose and am wasted, tugged
Towards you—
For I love.

In the same way,
An office imploding into nothing for a while at least to do,
I return away to tend 
In my own way
Towards you.

But I covet your visit
And coveting make dark of my heart
A wine cellar in which my words I imprison & zombie
To forever rummage and gloat
Of our vintages and the hope
That age would delicate.


Goddamn us all and all our love
We treat like soup and spoon when warm.
At dawn, I’ll wear a pair of death’s breeches
And pistol myself a blackened pie
Till it wheels like charred mockings
From the mocking-blue sky.

Nothing but fences empty all the emptiness
As far as the eye with its prophetic scope can spy.
Goddamn us all and all our love.
It was cold here and I took off every stitch.
It made no difference in the cold water
Running like my time in Time’s ditch.

“The Cardiovascular Surgeon of Immigration Papers”

I fake myself out a turkey, plucked & then feathered by carrots & sticks.
Guilt comes like road work, bordering, 1500 feet ahead until
A firecracker defiant as a favorite trashcan simpers of dinosauric jealousy inside me.
10 years from now everything I thought I could never
Live without will be more cardboard-hearts
I’ve transplanted, failing to revive
The least-loved, aged barrel of my monkeys.  But now
I’m nothing I’ve ever wanted to be but passionately mute
Of invasions and dumbly trampled by.

“The Occupied Freeway in the Wall of Streets: A Poem Currently ”

Always come days when nothing excites but ceasing.
The hands hover, covering faces.  Everyone is hideously careful.
At birth I sliced off my Mother’s clitoris with my strong-manly-crybaby-jaw
To inspect the configuration herniated of soon wet heaven-shit.
Her clitoris I taped with felt careful onto my own brain so full of love.
The earplug-device of violence sucks the wet off heaven
And roto-roots the heavens out of that configuration.

Roomba yr genitals
Inspired with ramen-noodle-political rage;
No-Good-God has enough covers to go around.
The sales of pornography tell us pornography is a conventional sexuality.  It is the Celine Dion of sex.
The hideous eye of instructive poppies
Crowns my absent appetite noodly & impertinent.
I flee linen & food
Orphaning every joy as a litter of puppies
Thrown from a sedan like cigarette-butts.

Dear censoring selfishly responsible hyena,
The Law is a claw slashed from a cadaverous Macaw.
That Beauty was bitter and gave to rise a yeasty bile of inflection
I freed me to revile till all hope meanwhile
I could shunt on trial for welcoming a womb of style.
Casually the land creeps out of even whichever’s handy nose.
Whatever soul had to stay alive cheated
And rose up past the moon
Muttering, “I don’t work there anymore,
In the buffet of nightingales
Where common decency drives off the Galapagos-freeway
And comes to a constructed red-light.
The air conditioner stutters sulphur and is on.
People are afraid to merge.

2 Comedic Poems

1.     "Friendgutter"

One day, like votives, everything will change and burn and then
The next day too.
But I'd known if we changed together
I'll burn into forms of loving you.

2.     "Lucky Friends"

It's been worse and sooner, sure enough,
I'll be in a hearse.
Death will make me very terse, but you'll be lucky--
I won't be able to curse
Nor write anymore “verse.”

"More Tired Things I Gladden Treading Out"

Imagine solely & new a testamental bird of fierce rubber--
The night of some belowly nature what's spoken to belied;
And then there are the volunteers who stutter
To be forgiven of plans, straw, & tooth's decay.

The bird nailed & heard to the sinking mast of the scarecrow-auditorium
Helmets himself with a tire by meeting the road
That brow-burnt stage where a tongue, a window-frame, wasn't built to care to last.

Every day becomes a eulogy of hay for the skillet's plans.
Fuck it, yams and pennies and penny arcades...
Swim in sweet rolls and currents of sheet metals
Raising the singed tails of rickety and tasteless window-frames.

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