Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Big talk Big

i tell everyone i’m a
writer

because

i’ve had sex

and

i tell everyone i’m a
porn star.

Mod Lit; or my tickle-me-pink aesthetics

[a rehash]


Weird is no
longer all that
weird.

Dada and kinfolk,
well beyond their golden anniversaries,
a 100 years later,
are no longer experimental

but post-experimental.

Even with its freshest incarnations,
it is still old.

There is a literature that lures man away from himself,
and there is a literature that forces man to face himself,

cope,

repent from,

replenish himself.

The one seeks to make the author
invisible thru plot or gimmicks with words,

while the other seeks to expose the author
and hence the common fallacies of his human bothers
either to air out wounds or
just let the gangrene set in,

to either heal or rot away, hopefully.

In my opinion,
art is no longer needed to
merely distract the species from its autistic
window-gazing during our time of obvious crisis.

Art, whether she realizes
it or not, like science, alleviates
and eases this bitch called life,

and both must respond to the needs of the people if they are to be relevant.

As much as I like
Gertrude Stein and
dismiss Ayn Rand,
people even then--even now
and far into the future--will prefer
to read Aynie over Gerty.

the status quo is to buck the status quo.

be a bride of your age, says Bertie, and be a widow in the next.

Pastoral Hymn; or GYNO (II)

well your baby is average

about seven inches long

says Dr. Fourfinger

and look

look

there is his penis

he’s a boy

a boy!

and i say

so you say he’s average right

i mean, you know what i mean

average right

and then the doc looks at my wife

spread out on the gurney

and says

you can dress him up

but you can’t take him out

can you

An anonymous page from my notebook

unpaid work

a cove => ?

all either past or future whores

the banks of piled up beer cans (snowbank)

while the going was good

tipster

oh atheist, you serve disdain like a montheist

antonomasia : ‘his lordship’; those ‘Don Juan’s’

poetic perjury

boardinghouse

escutcheon : the shield in a coat of arms
ornamental protective plate around/keyhole, lightswitch, drawer pull,
doorhandle etc.

to blot one’s escutcheon : taint one’s reputation

Do you remember, the drops of water made her blackraincoat
shiny and we ended up taking refuge in some outlying bistro and
coming back on the trolley, slow and noisy.

a paint & spackle job

arrondissement => administrative district in Fr. cities

my buzzing ears

it stuck in my throat

infrapsychically)

chiromancy

some of the more noteworthy of his noteworthy friends

pince-nez => ?

up with the times

the legend of the Drunken poem

it’s going to be 4.50 sir

4 free beers deep

and longing

not longing

needing, booze runs thick

breasts heave out the

bar/bra the german struts

macaroni clings, whores are getting laid

a real writer walks into a bar

and pays for every other drink.

he makes laughs

Sexy Haiku

A guy with
one leg walks
up to a girl
with one
tooth

and says

how ‘bout some
leg

Denial

That day
my brother
Said she
was gonna
die

but didn’t

I was in denial
as he cried

Mom never died
and
I never got
over denial

sliced open

the bar wench sliced her
pinky on a shattered life
while talking

blood flowed and flowed

‘I can’t afford this, I move in two days’

and this, ladies and ladies, is another
opportunity for Link to shine.

i told her i’d stitch her up

‘I swear I don’t have AIDS.’ up and down, flowing and flowing

they all say that, but Link, if he can, must.

she gives me $2 to go to the store and buy superglue

I sooth a thin layer over my hands for a seal
just in case

she holds the bleeding cut open as i dab it in,
as bloody glue trickles into both our hands.

now we are glued together

we rip apart and i grab for my beer

now i’m glued to the glass

she’s still bleeding
and
i’m just another genius at the bar

Diaper Rash

you sleep a third of your life
but work the entire time

like an inmate, waiting all day
for recess, outside time

the few hours you call life
the few moments you have to look out the window
you are too tired for

you bleed out of your ass
from squat thrusting tons of carcass
at the butcher shop

blood is everywhere, mingling

she cries because she sleeps one third of the day
and lives alone all day at home

i cry because being a bad writer is all i have
and now i lost even that

i work all day
and she can’t be alone

i work all day
and i can’t be alone.

i’ll spend more time
with co-workers
than raising my child

tomorrow, i say, i will be off.

we’ll make love

my muscles will stop burning

and tomorrow I’ll write and fuck like there’s no tomorrow

I was smoking a cigarette out back when

I was smoking a cigarette out back when


the howl of the fire truck
bled into the scream of the
coyotes
in the field

the fires burnt the night dead

and to think

everything was going as planned

Magnetogravitation

she’s all
tits and tattoos
stretching and shrinking
with time

but even
the stretch marks
of earth
is damn fine

the uterus of
superfluous
divine fire

pregnant on hard
iron

she’ll find her
Sancho on her
way to walgreens

while the
core spins
more than the
skin

making days of us

telling lives
before the
cigarette burns

slowly shedding
her
whore exterior

Chubby Girl

my father left because i’m fat
all of my men
all my friends
because i’m fat.

i was raped because i was thin

the other day, on the street, b/c i’m fat
two guys walking by, one said,
look at that fat bitch

so i don’t go out

i shop at night

i live on the outskirts

people tell me to wear sleeves

they stare

i keep friends for years before they leave me

my mother died then my father raped me. he left because
I am fat. they all left.

people stare and say things for my own good, right ?, even if
they are nasty

my fat protects me from the creep, the ass, the broken heart

it keeps me warm.

it is why every bad thing happens.

It keeps me safe.

Link Hates Ink

Link Hates Ink

my wife is
printing
what all
she wants
for the
baby
from
the
web

we run out of ink

and then realized we couldn’t afford to buy more





comment- this is all good and well, link, but we all know that the means of wealth are an arranged marriage between frugality and exploitation. When I say frugal, I mean you must either deny yourself or else be satisfied with yourself, because materialism is the soil true wealth grows in, and a tree cannot be its soil. You know that, I hope. When I say exploitation, of course, I mean you must exploit either the suckers, or the land which the sucker call their own. Your friend, Ryan