a small one
a girl poetry
you can write
and to me
I will read it
Always
-
Down the Foibe
was the last time I saw you
and it was there in trieste
that we felt this way, falling
to the sad swoon of the sea
thrown from the gulf
both of us in free communal
bound by tongue our caress
our love broken
Down the Foibe
in the darkness
chasms of our limbs
and our hands can connect
recapitulate, get up
torn from the stars, strive
our loves above
and throw ourselves back
-
Get out of your shell
a turtle with his flippers and long stiped head
just pushed the door open and strolled in
hes not walking about over my girlfriends underwear
hes staring at the pastels on the floor and the empty easel
what he wants I have no idea as I sit in boiling water
he noticed my heat
and is now in retreat back to the hall
what a shame of a soup I am
-
the last roach appears
and I kill him.
hes theres on the floor
you see em'
(he birthed many silverfish)
little bugs
I wrestle him
hes still alive
on his back
struggling
wounded'big bug of prime
stare
flop
I'm a torturer now
kill him for the plebian?
cause the violin is moving him
an accordion his legs and antenna
first lines are meant for something
he tells me
(gruesome my next move)
for social pleasure, cleanliness
he does not need this strive
I push
shoe
now
honored dead
-
In passing we are
Harrowing cello memoriam
The bowing ligaments
Mincing notes
Avid readers of
Our left behind dime
Store novellas pouring over
The typed scrawl
Seeking momentary
Relapse, as if to say
In life this Leaflet breath,
a mere moored
Pen to character
Us, pockets of poesies
Cannot sew a limerick for
Halfpence, sonnet for
Bourbon, a sober
Beggary we denounce
And hold each pebble
To hide, to decorum
Our granite headboard,
In life, we hear odes,
These tiresome repetitions
Of the literary past
-
out god &
suckle on her
beautiful toes
& we would
dance her
mothers tap
shoes
wash off
all of our
sins & collapse
beautiful mal
funct creatures
together,
thumping
enlivening as always,
such beautiful
lashes cast
aside in
time constraints,
us beautiful
moans never
meant to be
-
Chainsaw Onegin
let the ripple effect to pushed burn envelop
sizable ripe white rhinefleisch of face
do it again, repeat, do it again
were not dueling behind scrim
(this art of war is ash and powder)
for linsky our hero poet dies, all of them
over and over
what do you reasonable expect, literature?
hard nibble of lead, forced ink to fountain,
or shall I dismember an ant
tear away his bodily fluids, his legs,
draft out on Chinese fortune opening
these symbols of wishful rhyme, lust, love,
poetry
what do you wish of us scribblers
I've got a chainsaw in the backseat
I'm itching to chainsaw people
and to think, my second but a lowly servant,
my Tatiana a humble muscovite in Vermont,
are these founders box seats soiled for my ass,
a dead lifeless sprawl of arms on the ground
chainsaw out out palpable flesh puppets
make a hat with the scent from her perfume
wear her face, and yes, indeed, take a limb
(for they make great toothpicks)
I hate that I'm cornered into serial killer
I hate that people my age aren't very smart
I hate the I love old women, old stories
for its the young ones you duel
and I've sanctioned, and off cannon shot
labored hard to prevent this affable shot
and they move on
they all find vaginas filled, giving,
grasping
and my cock, this young linsky
out of place in olga pewter to heart
they say all poets die,
lively
they say all people die, dismember
for chainsaw and onegin
did you shear my sideburns off?
I even hear they let a woman talk in public,
I spread the rhetorical, propaganda
why?
for I'd rather a woman then a black
and who,
is black these days in talent
a red starred aristocratic american indian
thinks mainly whiskey, it helps
soothe down the throat this abnormality
but in a few moments silence carves stone
the shaped piece of whittled arrows that pierce
heart
a blood
appears
hard to notice really, much different,
coffee, ham, sausage, bacon
blood
on your fine crafted Italian suit
for these stains of fabric are common elsewhere
us in decadent hut hurry in ballet,
massage calves, ankles, but blood is shed on stage
fascinated beautiful poets, people
are left to their own devices and mutating
(unfortune)
as we speak, these loafsome lumbering lyrics
learning simple magic concoctions to dislodge
the pelt of hail in your throat to swallow,
pass stone,
chopped up human worth
please give me my Tatiana
the prince of no worth
useless panderer of words,
please,
olga,
hook me up with your sister
who
I dismembered
of the beating precipice
a heart
stolen
laid out in the motley of pine and timber
a crushed red dress of desire
so succulent to amass such saliva
so savory to lend ones hearth,
courage
we shred in vanity
dismember
and beg
easy
for poetry
and gunpowder
a girl poetry
you can write
and to me
I will read it
Always
-
Down the Foibe
was the last time I saw you
and it was there in trieste
that we felt this way, falling
to the sad swoon of the sea
thrown from the gulf
both of us in free communal
bound by tongue our caress
our love broken
Down the Foibe
in the darkness
chasms of our limbs
and our hands can connect
recapitulate, get up
torn from the stars, strive
our loves above
and throw ourselves back
-
Get out of your shell
a turtle with his flippers and long stiped head
just pushed the door open and strolled in
hes not walking about over my girlfriends underwear
hes staring at the pastels on the floor and the empty easel
what he wants I have no idea as I sit in boiling water
he noticed my heat
and is now in retreat back to the hall
what a shame of a soup I am
-
the last roach appears
and I kill him.
hes theres on the floor
you see em'
(he birthed many silverfish)
little bugs
I wrestle him
hes still alive
on his back
struggling
wounded'big bug of prime
stare
flop
I'm a torturer now
kill him for the plebian?
cause the violin is moving him
an accordion his legs and antenna
first lines are meant for something
he tells me
(gruesome my next move)
for social pleasure, cleanliness
he does not need this strive
I push
shoe
now
honored dead
-
In passing we are
Harrowing cello memoriam
The bowing ligaments
Mincing notes
Avid readers of
Our left behind dime
Store novellas pouring over
The typed scrawl
Seeking momentary
Relapse, as if to say
In life this Leaflet breath,
a mere moored
Pen to character
Us, pockets of poesies
Cannot sew a limerick for
Halfpence, sonnet for
Bourbon, a sober
Beggary we denounce
And hold each pebble
To hide, to decorum
Our granite headboard,
In life, we hear odes,
These tiresome repetitions
Of the literary past
-
out god &
suckle on her
beautiful toes
& we would
dance her
mothers tap
shoes
wash off
all of our
sins & collapse
beautiful mal
funct creatures
together,
thumping
enlivening as always,
such beautiful
lashes cast
aside in
time constraints,
us beautiful
moans never
meant to be
-
Chainsaw Onegin
let the ripple effect to pushed burn envelop
sizable ripe white rhinefleisch of face
do it again, repeat, do it again
were not dueling behind scrim
(this art of war is ash and powder)
for linsky our hero poet dies, all of them
over and over
what do you reasonable expect, literature?
hard nibble of lead, forced ink to fountain,
or shall I dismember an ant
tear away his bodily fluids, his legs,
draft out on Chinese fortune opening
these symbols of wishful rhyme, lust, love,
poetry
what do you wish of us scribblers
I've got a chainsaw in the backseat
I'm itching to chainsaw people
and to think, my second but a lowly servant,
my Tatiana a humble muscovite in Vermont,
are these founders box seats soiled for my ass,
a dead lifeless sprawl of arms on the ground
chainsaw out out palpable flesh puppets
make a hat with the scent from her perfume
wear her face, and yes, indeed, take a limb
(for they make great toothpicks)
I hate that I'm cornered into serial killer
I hate that people my age aren't very smart
I hate the I love old women, old stories
for its the young ones you duel
and I've sanctioned, and off cannon shot
labored hard to prevent this affable shot
and they move on
they all find vaginas filled, giving,
grasping
and my cock, this young linsky
out of place in olga pewter to heart
they say all poets die,
lively
they say all people die, dismember
for chainsaw and onegin
did you shear my sideburns off?
I even hear they let a woman talk in public,
I spread the rhetorical, propaganda
why?
for I'd rather a woman then a black
and who,
is black these days in talent
a red starred aristocratic american indian
thinks mainly whiskey, it helps
soothe down the throat this abnormality
but in a few moments silence carves stone
the shaped piece of whittled arrows that pierce
heart
a blood
appears
hard to notice really, much different,
coffee, ham, sausage, bacon
blood
on your fine crafted Italian suit
for these stains of fabric are common elsewhere
us in decadent hut hurry in ballet,
massage calves, ankles, but blood is shed on stage
fascinated beautiful poets, people
are left to their own devices and mutating
(unfortune)
as we speak, these loafsome lumbering lyrics
learning simple magic concoctions to dislodge
the pelt of hail in your throat to swallow,
pass stone,
chopped up human worth
please give me my Tatiana
the prince of no worth
useless panderer of words,
please,
olga,
hook me up with your sister
who
I dismembered
of the beating precipice
a heart
stolen
laid out in the motley of pine and timber
a crushed red dress of desire
so succulent to amass such saliva
so savory to lend ones hearth,
courage
we shred in vanity
dismember
and beg
easy
for poetry
and gunpowder
