Thursday, October 27, 2016

EXPRESS ORDER

It better arrive before xmas or at least easter.
I'd like to express order a train
that will take me to candy.
I don't want to bleed for it.
I want it for free
before and after bedtime.
I wish to look in one lover's eyes
and melt into a carnival.
I want to order whee at the top
above crazy colored lights
and dropped red hot apples.
Don't ask for my address or age.
I'm nowhere. I'm still thirteen.
Raspberry dark chocolate me some
kind of promise.
But I have to believe it.
Has to be heavier than a San Antonio
booty call or drunk missed connection.
Bring me a rocket.
I don't want to die for it.
I'm talking about waking up
to French toast and bacon
from a pig not a turkey
and the blackest coffee possible
and him glancing at me
over the newspaper
because they still make those
and in his reading glasses
I'm luscious
I'm nubile
I'm never been fucked up the ass
and it's all first class to Venus
no stops on Saturn.
Hurry.
Bring it fast and furious
while I still
possess a damn.

BLEED CHRIST BLEED

Do not heed the psychic werewolves
and color coded cheerleaders
with their perfect peppermint smiles.
Bleed christ bleed into QVC customer service
into blow jobs into karaoke into customized videos
unto death
popcorn no popcorn
butter no butter
biggie size soda
lukewarm fountain water
no ice no filter
no fucking straw
bleed christ bleed
because Jesus wept sangre
because no answer from daddy
because no dawn
bleed bleed bleed
with or without panties on
bleed because you know how
you've chorus lined each step
since 1983
you can do that
you're dance ten
looks eleven
at the ballet
at the disco
at any given honky tonk
hot ass Saturday night.
Bleed christ bleed
because we all need mas
with extra sauce
but we settle for much less
because the limbic xmas tree
is such an irony deficient
linear noel
and we burn baby burn
while ice castles melt
into idiot sea.
It's Salinger.
It's Bradbury.
It's Dick on speed.
Through a scanner madly
we're crap artists dreaming electric
Uranus wolf whistling in the eighth
and Pluto so horny but not gonna crack
in the fifth
because damn baby damn
that Sam I am
is playing favorites again
and we will never win
but bleed anyway
unto anemia
it's the American way.
We've got credentials in spades.
Let's do it to it.
Stars and stripes por vida.
Make that apple pie proud.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

KARDASHIAN VOMIT

Someone is watching them.
Kardashians kontinue.
I watch in my donut pajamas
bloated from the kind of cheese
you spray from a can.
"Writing a book is like
the most annoying thing ever."
Khloe Kardashian writes books
signs books sells books.
She has to fill the hours somehow
between big deal boyfriends
kocktails
koffee klatsch
kunt krew
kewpie doll voodoo
kitten kostume selfies
all up in that social media
instant gratification flavor.
"Why do you watch that crap?"
I have to fill the hours somehow
between sloppy cheap makeup selfies
and mad scribble scrabble.
It's interesting watching people
think up ways to spend millions of dollars.
Impromptu trips to Iceland.
Housewarming parties with like
really expensive candles and deejays and shit.
All those kids.
All that klutter.
I'm kurious about how exactly
their deaths will be televised.
Probably with plenty
of killer
lighting.

EVERYTHING YOU CLING TO WILL ROT

Thursday, October 13, 2016

BLOOMING HARD


BABY YOU CAN CRASH MY VOLVO


ALL THIS NEPTUNE NOISE


DICK ARMY


CAMPFIRE

Oh limbic xmas tree oh limbic xmas tree.
I burned to a crisp between your branches.
Now I'm blue twinkling lights.
Now I'm the bargain bin angel glowing on top.
Now I'm...fuck xmas.
It's Halloween.
I'm wearing Lisa Frank sprinkled donut pajamas
pretending like I've never licked an ice cream cone
and my name is Kitty Cat
but you can call me Benign Laughing Golden Retriever.
I'm all soft slurp.
I possess no sharp edges or malignant surprises.
The moon is in Aries or Scorpio and I'm sitting
pretty bland dumb obedient
before the roaring campfire
marshmallows dripping from my fingers.
Toby is telling us about the time his uncle died
and an owl hooted the "Twin Peaks" theme
outside his bathroom window.
Corey is strumming his Goodwill guitar.
Chelsea is flashing her tits, dousing herself
with gasoline.
Sam seems intrigued as he sips from his
bottle of Maker's Mark.
Tomorrow the spirit quest continues,
should take us at least as far as the Valero
on Vance Jackson.
They still sell lottery tickets and Slim Jim there.

ADORATION FROM A SPOOKY DISTANCE

Stay over there deep in your gravy.
I know your potatoes.
I know your salt.
I know your pepper.
I'm toasting you still
from a billion galaxies away.
Here is much the same as there.
Everything bulges.
Such a brag.
Muchness continues.
Nada is a myth.
Can you feel it, baby?
I can, too.
I'm quoting the former owner
of the trash talking teddy bear.
Everyone loves him in Boston
and a few other places.
Space doesn't scare me like it did
two or three ghost stories ago.
I know every inch of the woods
where we stumbled blind
seeking candy.
I'm still in those woods.
I'm still slobbering for chocolate.
The moon holds me and if I drop
and if I fall
Mercury reminds me with a wink
that no motherfucker in the multiverse
possesses a true net.
Boo.
Shivering.
Shining.
I can hold
myself.