I'VE SEEN WAY TOO MUCH FUCKING TREE BARK
we try to keep
cum and blood and
lipstick
separate
but you
sometimes
just can't have enough
mixtures!
See,
Life in the woods:
there wasn't enough
blood or excrement
or enough
mixtures of the
two!
There wasn't enough
spit on cement or enough
light on mesh
or enough
guitar rifts on
screams of fucking
tasty
agony!
That's why she moved
away from the woods,
to the city,
away from the woods
for so long
she loves the juxtaposition:
death makes life like orange juice
makes the meat
taste better
Like the metallic crunch
of the
zipper and the sharp
pistons of unknown
cock make
her cheeks
and lips
brighter!
The way the tree bark
never mixed with the greenest
moss!
—
Fuck you; But Significant Stupidity
Sitting on the countryside, astute,
I wrote a poem as I watched the birds nestle together on
a telephone line.
You closed your brain
so that I couldn't speak to it.
The white country swing was rocking and your
bare feet were on my thighs.
The sun was setting; the water of death was condensing
on our glassy lemonade cups.
To take more drugs, I thought, would be
marvelous.
And then you said it:
“You are
brilliant!”
Did you listen
to my poem?
I asked you.
Did you know that it’s easy to make
a man
a genius
if you warp
his words?
—
Don't Eat the Flowers in Springtime
I remember:
the stems surged out
to sun.
pops of
angry colors.
this pack: a retarded child:
each, a bright, red face.
on yesterdays, we sat near this place
where the vacant cement warehouses
covered up the tightfisted dope smoke.
we were always
leaning against barbed wire
or something
thinking that
each petal
was god or
a people
though we settled it on
each was half man,
half earth
and then we'd take
time by the shop
and smoke more dope.
this time
we paid the bookie
with the dope.
it was nice
and the flowers were around for awhile.
til winter, at least.
—
Though I Can't Demonize the Souless
you’re ruining it
for the rest of us.
your fine wine and
your fucking turtlenecks!
your berets and for Christ sake
those boney fingers snapping!
This isn’t your father’s
bed. This isn’t your
place of commerce!
This isn’t the America of Kerouac
or Ginsberg or Whitman.
They’re all dying for salvation,
the people. They’re
justly rushing over the precipice
of mediocrity because of
you!
Stop copywriting your poems.
Quit hiring agents. They’re fucking sharks.
Your square-framed glasses aren’t trendy.
Your coffee shop recitals are fucking dull!
What is your name?
What is your name?
C’mon writers of western civilization
eat the fat of reality! Shine your shoes not with the blood
of stupidity!
Fold your poems in the thin linings of your inner pockets and start
slitting throats with the sharp
pen!
You are not a rockstar.
You are not a genius.
You are a tyrant!
You are polka dots and puns!
You are not clever.
What is your name?
What contrived words are left to say
that you haven’t used so fucking
poorly!