Fuck off gotta write. (No not you.) Not there yet the mistrals an the whore grave diggers mate and it is glorious union.

So utopiad, so nicety, discomfiture and dismissal. Strewn about in the correct orientation. No notion of daggar, or rationality. My dissidence is dense and it hits me. I am the brick in the back of the car, waiting your arrival on time as usual.

Sea horses seem like nice creatures. Maybe go fuck them. Grayoff and whiteout and all the rainboweducate. It’ll cum. There’s no loss of things. I’m just here now. No one’s here now. We’re all sweet cookies. Crumbs are our ratios.

The rest of my life is when I sleep. The neighbors don’t know me. You know me. You know my neighbors. My neighbors cut their wrists when they’re happy. It’s much easier to write it (wrist) than to read it (horror, disgust). Oy! Folklore! What am I calling you! Cats. The nature of it. *rolls eyes*

All back and it’s good. Hit me up sometime. I’m crooked. No inside, no outside. Just the reality. Still motion pics make me weep, they’re so bad. It’s gross inside. There’s intestines and some sweets. I’m squeamish of gruesome murder, but not of picking boogers. Oh well, guess that’s gross, too.

Rhyme on you. Rhyme on through.

Ghost ship tell me your stories, I am a dead romance novelist caught writing poetry. Don’t cheat on me, you say, next time and I will give you a treat. Ohgoodthecaffeineworeoff. Well. Then some naturalist might remember how the squirrels fuck, too. It’s illegal to haze someone for being themself unless you really really don’t like them. Then it’s legal. Just like your daughter. Be sure to fuck them for me. Fuck fuck fuck like a manic child. They like to spread their vaginal fluids all over the wall… sometimes. At other times they play video games. Just a jester exercising due diligence. Most peasants never saw the torture chambers, anyway. Think I’m sick? You don’t know the inquisition. It’s Christian, though, so I suppose it’s glorious. Spain. What a shit-hole.

Cum dump, to be more precise. Bialleti! Nay, I am wary, traveler, for I drink too much coffee and booze. You lose. This time, turn around so I can touch your butt with both my hands. Denote to me where you live. I’d like to see/meet your architecture. The architects like to hug. I tuned in at “porno”. Guess I’ve got selective hearing.

Golden. Golden.


Mebe moar later.


Drama Queen

Your old friend,

Your old friend,

Goes like this:

Hate hate hate hate me. Hate hate hate hate hate this. Hats hats hats hats hats dance. Some some some some some time. Some some some some some fools. Want want want want want want you. Dead.

Hit the beat, the vertebrae like me out of my learning center. Is it beating still? No one knows, man, it’s cool just repeat after me: AEIOU AEIOU AEIOU…

Little thing, you’re the chance I’d like to take on the floor. You’re the time I sprained my ankle. Multiplicity in history. Some war. Not too bad. It’s just the scars that quake my atomic bomb. Sputtering. Well it’s got to go somewhere.

Dislocation of somnambulating memorization schemes. Weather’s still fine. Not dropping bombs on Paris. Not dropping bombs on New York. Not even going there in the summer, when I’m younger than now.

Hit off, right at the turn of the century. Well, lovers # n. F, can’t go. Somewhere around here… found it! Lit the match, hit up the gin, lost luck and got the fuckoutta there. Maybe next time, slick…

Send me off. I’m on vacation already. You go ahead and do that! You’re so cool for me. Maybe the neighbors can vouch for our legal divorce in advance. Like a bank account that thinks I’m healthy sometimes. Well, it’s got to be found sooner or later. No nonsense about this cash flow, just settlement toward the concrete slab where I found a dime when I was two. I could walk all over graves and when I learned to dance it got even better.

No guessing games when you sound so loud. You know. That’s the acoustic chamber of our lifetime. Inspiration strikes the ground twice when you’ve skunked out of school and hit up and caught your favorite band’s show at least a few times. It happens. Not everyone’s a winner. Go hope.


Alien Slut Coffee (Part 2)

In life, slut, that cool shit eats itself. Well? What have you for  yourself say? SlOw DoWn./././././…

I fought. Yes I did. I hope you did too. Upbeat! Yeah! Y’know? Summit? Cough? FffffCradle? Nay. Umm humming. Dope beat. Sup.

Some say! that cousins love each other no matter what. Even if they give each other brain disease. [fast:] how cute

Well no one knows. No one knows when ur naked and when ur not. It’s not the spittle in your chin brow that leaks me down, it’s the market and it’s hiatus and the help from dead ancestors and vice that grope me. I’m the rapist’s toy, slut. I’m here now. Forever hear. Forever foolish. Don’t grope the toys. They love(d) better. Scented. Cake hits and I’m floored.

How cute

Some say…

That when the weather turns pink, fixing things doesn’t work. at all times nonstop with coffee and a rain storm out there out West when it breaks in tune I shimmy shimmy hug~

Break sauce. Break it. Foolish toys. How fearful of biology and kind. In time I shall dominate you, but you don’t know how foolish that sounds! It’s laughable! Hah. It’s jokeable. It’s quaint. It’s senile. Funny devils. Can’t fix this mess.


The air I breath doesn’t settle in my lungs. I keep breathing and I do not understand. This high is not so great like mountains or ravines. This high hits its algo when the meter check hits. This high hits its algo when rain storm __drops__

Dropping balloons on the floor. Meh.


Alien Slut Coffee (Part 1)

Had that fifth coffee. It’s kind of romantic. Nothing is ever WRITE.

Traitorous disguise. What lust. I lips like and no one knows. Who goes there? There is no garment for the darkness. There is just pajamas. By the off chance that I get to go, there, in some sort of way–would you take me? In your arms? And hold me down and run me over with the train. Toy set won’t make me cry. I’m just five, I’m just twenty-five, I’m just a hundred . and one dalmations . at the pub. Maybe I can do it. But not, so, hough. and ho. Ho ho ho, bitches.

Diamons in cut. No one knows the attention c-c-cravings. I’m mad. No one explain that to her! Don’t do it!

Just denote your intentions and we’ll be cool.

No ulterior motives, slut.

I can’t stop. Well we’re off, and out go the hunters, there come the guns, then some drugs, now war, now frenzy and mass panic. Oh this is a good one! I am liking this simulation run, friend. We, aliens, be so in control of the situation har har har how entertaining har how long do you think it’ll last?



There’s No Solution But to Write

Hit ass ass ass. Kiss kiss. Mebe he can sunder invocation of style some day. He’s not too hot…

I kissed him the other day. Lust in my pants and a little piglet on the street winked at me. T’was nice. Someday I want him married off. Little girl slutting off on the St. Winks at me. I stay still.

Measure of good measure of good measure of good measure makes me want to show you how I feel. I can hose it down, I’m sure, I just need some practice. It’s not always misunderstanding. Heh. Wrong word. Fuck.

Ah well, euloser (me me me, not you) and how long it lasts… I wish we could couple something. I’m just a pair of free energies, baby, I’m just lust in diamonds and the molehills at the kid’s arcade. Guns shoot toy dolls and babies go Wa-Wa.

Honk your horns! Babies go Wa-Wa sometimes.

Maybe it’s still… not enough?

I don’t know what I want.

I want to be found.


Outback Bumper Sticker

By sweeping bumper sticker design…


Does he understand any of this?

Killed it.

Eat shit ear wax, rats. No combat, fatigue.(s) mebe he will cradle us



at the disco want. us to stay~ maybe somewhere – in the out-a-back.

Love is style.


Charles Olson – I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You

Off-shore, by islands hidden in the blood
                                        jewels & miracles, I, Maximus
                                        a metal hot from boiling water, tell you
                                        what is a lance, who obeys the figures of
                                        the present dance
the thing you’re after
may lie around the bend
of the nest (second, time slain, the bird! the bird!
And there! (strong) thrust, the mast! flight
                                                                  (of the bird
                                                                  o kylix, o
                                                                  Antony of Padua
                                                                  sweep low, o bless
the roofs, the old ones, the gentle steep ones
on whose ridge-poles the gulls sit, from which they depart,
                                                                  And the flake-racks
of my city!
love is form, and cannot be without
important substance (the weight
say, 58 carats each one of us, perforce
our goldsmith’s scale
                                           feather to feather added
                                           (and what is mineral, what
                                           is curling hair, the string
                                           you carry in your nervous beak, these
                                           make bulk, these, in the end, are
                                           the sum
                                           (o my lady of good voyage
                                           in whose arm, whose left arm rests
no boy but a carefully carved wood, a painted face, a schooner!
a delicate mast, as bow-sprit for
the underpart is, though stemmed, uncertain
is, as sex is, as moneys are, facts!
facts, to be dealt with, as the sea is, the demand
that they be played by, that they only can be, that they must
be played by, said he, coldly, the
By ear, he sd.
But that which matters, that which insists, that which will last,
that! o my people, where shall you find it, how, where, where shall you listen
when all is become billboards, when, all, even silence, is spray-gunned?
when even our bird, my roofs,
cannot be heard
when even you, when sound itself is neoned in?
when, on the hill, over the water
where she who used to sing,
when the water glowed,
black, gold, the tide
outward, at evening
when bells came like boats
over the oil-slicks, milkweed
And a man slumped,
against pink shingles
o sea city)
one loves only form,
and form only comes
into existence when
the thing is born
                           born of yourself, born
                           of hay and cotton struts,
                           of street-pickings, wharves, weeds
                           you carry in, my bird
                                                            of a bone of a fish
                                                            of a straw, or will
                                                            of a color, of a bell
                                                            of yourself, torn
love is not easy
but how shall you know,
New England, now
that pejorocracy is here, how
that street-cars, o Oregon, twitter
in the afternoon offend
a black-gold loin?
                              how shall you strike,
                              o swordsman, the blue-red black
                              when, last night, your aim
                              was mu-sick, mu-sick, mu-sick
                              And not the cribbage game?
                                                          (o Gloucester-man,
                                                          your birds and fingers
                                                          new, your roof-tops,
                                                          clean shit upon racks
                                                          sunned on
                                                          with others like you, such
                                                          extricable surface
                                                          as faun and oral,
                                                          satyr lesbos vase
                                                          o kill kill kill kill kill
                                                          who advertise you
in! in! the bow-sprit, bird, the beak
in, the bend is, in, goes in, the form
that which you make, what holds, which is
the law of object, strut after strut, what you are, what you must be, what
the force can throw up, can, right now hereinafter erect,
the mast, the mast, the tender
                              The nest, I say, to you, I Maximus, say
                              under the hand, as I see it, over the waters
                              from this place where I am, where I hear,
                              can still hear
                              from where I carry you a feather
                              as though, sharp, I picked up
                              in the afternoon delivered you
                              a jewel,
                                             it flashing more than a wing,
                              than any old romantic thing,
                              than memory, than place,
                              than anything other than that which you carry
                              than that which is,
                              call it a nest, around the head of, call it
                              the next second
                              than that which you
                              can do!
Charles Olson, “I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You” from The Maximus Poems, published by the University of California Press. Copyright © 1983 by Charles Olson. Reprinted with the permission of The Literary Estate of Charles Olson.
Source: The Maximus Poems (University of California Press, 1987)