kings are still
eating rare dishes,
of the black pupil caviar
watching from their plates
a mountain collective:
refugees hiding machineguns
in woolly flocks
others only have hearts
to swallow, tasting the sour
of eggshell and acids
pillaging their own village
revolts leave bones
of the street,
sausage on the scaffolds
pyres and stakes
begging,
barking crackling fire
americans walk with tubs
around waists
like hyrants.
basic needs met?
dotard at five
fun in the blood
like stars raffled in the cosmos
eat all day long
in impregnable dulcitude
sleep all day long
buried under ruins
christian pheasant
served on platters,
win the lottery
you lucky dog
-
Acute leisure
The school of metallugy opens cave like
cunts and business men come out. shelly’s mont blanc
is their monte bank so they strain themselves on design and architecture, and strap themselves rockclimbing
they look with dogged solidarity
and lick each other’s faces
and look at others, eyes moist with salivating growl; they’ve found a home to die for
a war to fight, a common mouth to speak, such wholesome people filled with faith and founding, unfinished tasks pious sobriety actively involved to keep up with the sun
over and over, must be happiest.
The alchemist transforms african teeth diamond,
makes inexperience hit nose on the pavement and inhale cement until lungs turn sour and speckled with blood
stolid stalin rests after hard work
blue in the musoleum, lenin stiffly smiles
through fire that plays a capering flute
through the smug grey skies of moscow, on a red brick carpet.
the skydiving starfish has touched the sun and lived
on dreams. she now makes a bed for herself,
so much as streetlight spreads a cone skirt,
near the warm blind lick of death
the products of acute leisure obtuse on couches
and live on crumbs like ants pinching skin, and nesting in the ass of the lazy,
as once so happened on one sunny day in bustling rues of urban myth:
a man didn’t know what was wrong so he came to see the doctor....
parks alighted with cropped neon grass and encumbered with umbrelling willows
were tossed out the window shut. no light. the man had realized;
the doctor had told him:
he lived on couches on crumbs like ants pinching skin and nesting in his asshole
the products of acute leisure eat ice cream in the desert
and build gotham city in place of iraq
while non-iraqi iraqi empathizers
tell each other stolen jokes
eating rare dishes,
of the black pupil caviar
watching from their plates
a mountain collective:
refugees hiding machineguns
in woolly flocks
others only have hearts
to swallow, tasting the sour
of eggshell and acids
pillaging their own village
revolts leave bones
of the street,
sausage on the scaffolds
pyres and stakes
begging,
barking crackling fire
americans walk with tubs
around waists
like hyrants.
basic needs met?
dotard at five
fun in the blood
like stars raffled in the cosmos
eat all day long
in impregnable dulcitude
sleep all day long
buried under ruins
christian pheasant
served on platters,
win the lottery
you lucky dog
-
Acute leisure
The school of metallugy opens cave like
cunts and business men come out. shelly’s mont blanc
is their monte bank so they strain themselves on design and architecture, and strap themselves rockclimbing
they look with dogged solidarity
and lick each other’s faces
and look at others, eyes moist with salivating growl; they’ve found a home to die for
a war to fight, a common mouth to speak, such wholesome people filled with faith and founding, unfinished tasks pious sobriety actively involved to keep up with the sun
over and over, must be happiest.
The alchemist transforms african teeth diamond,
makes inexperience hit nose on the pavement and inhale cement until lungs turn sour and speckled with blood
stolid stalin rests after hard work
blue in the musoleum, lenin stiffly smiles
through fire that plays a capering flute
through the smug grey skies of moscow, on a red brick carpet.
the skydiving starfish has touched the sun and lived
on dreams. she now makes a bed for herself,
so much as streetlight spreads a cone skirt,
near the warm blind lick of death
the products of acute leisure obtuse on couches
and live on crumbs like ants pinching skin, and nesting in the ass of the lazy,
as once so happened on one sunny day in bustling rues of urban myth:
a man didn’t know what was wrong so he came to see the doctor....
parks alighted with cropped neon grass and encumbered with umbrelling willows
were tossed out the window shut. no light. the man had realized;
the doctor had told him:
he lived on couches on crumbs like ants pinching skin and nesting in his asshole
the products of acute leisure eat ice cream in the desert
and build gotham city in place of iraq
while non-iraqi iraqi empathizers
tell each other stolen jokes
-
Charlotte and her nigger
Charlotte and her nigger
walk hand-n-hood smokin Victorian porticos
on the evening of misanthropic cosmos
spun wretched, we waited for the quick
silver to erudite our nostrils
and all things
fate nests with motive, all the stars
drop to the palms of the hot-headed
stars' five points transgrassed
into the fingers of men,
the defunct pentacles shaped earthen.
the hands are effaced with the ambition of stones.
once a million eyes of god
watched our omni partition
on the dusting ground
are now rancid refrigeration, ass-up
and char-infused. the stars' smoke cools
torpid to a pinch of salt
oh silent fart, how were you once
our etherial watchdog! how could god
have allowed misery and sorrow?!
Charlotte and her nigger talk
about philosophy and politics,
watching the bald city sky.
Charlotte and her nigger
walk hand-n-hood smokin Victorian porticos
on the evening of misanthropic cosmos
spun wretched, we waited for the quick
silver to erudite our nostrils
and all things
fate nests with motive, all the stars
drop to the palms of the hot-headed
stars' five points transgrassed
into the fingers of men,
the defunct pentacles shaped earthen.
the hands are effaced with the ambition of stones.
once a million eyes of god
watched our omni partition
on the dusting ground
are now rancid refrigeration, ass-up
and char-infused. the stars' smoke cools
torpid to a pinch of salt
oh silent fart, how were you once
our etherial watchdog! how could god
have allowed misery and sorrow?!
Charlotte and her nigger talk
about philosophy and politics,
watching the bald city sky.
