in cultivation

tightly wound in a masquerade
coersion is an ethical principle
the equations bounce back
from inadequate math
& irreducible sums
the biosphere is full of effluent
in the rearview mirror you can see asthetics
chic creatures drying ink
only the beautiful rust
canines retrieve messages
machine girls run numbers
in a world of burnt orange
scars bleed into defamity
clocks get rewound
a pimp vomits gibberish
an old man buys gasoline
to fuel the final attack on apathy
the corporation stands resolute
by articles of association
designed to tie the new to the old
at the wall of sound
the truth is played in high def
to one lone vagabond.

MUCUS

I live in the best of times, times of cheap imitation,
deafening consternation, dogmatic pleurisy, sensory masturbation,
Hear words in the mouths of heretics & conjurers
Immediate satisfaction guaranteed - decibels of disclaimers & apologies
The blind lead the seeing-eye dogs into the garden of adultery
Jugglers slip through taffeta eyes of masquerade
I relive my pasts with tequila; see my futures in absinthe blackening
Dissolve my detachment from maternal piety
A mere illusionary tale, twisted like bad acid candy
My own analogy, allergy, allegory, atrophy
Vitriolic bonemeal, panel-beating aspirations back into shape
A sleek white worm in the cortex of co-dependency
A lingering gut ache, a fallacy, an effigy, anti-frizzed
micro-waved, counter-clock wound,
Atypical, amoral, abrupt, aborted,
Bestial, celestial, corporeal real estate,
Contaminated inventory, preternatural howl
The mucus on the blood-stained fingers
Of Lot’s goddamned motherfucking nameless
gutless wife – guilty of everything, indicted, flayed, displayed.

superfuck constellation

tho im not everything you think
but am more than you imagine
an entire constellation burning
with blue moons & pink suns
& little green androgynous clones
doused in chatreuse
watching meteors collide
pinball wizards
& metronomes
swinging both ways
to the last waltz
before implosion
whispering beautiful thoughts
to wayward daughters
of the apocalypse
now & then as the bastard son sets
i consider annihilation
of all those principles
the moral majority fuck
as i do the mathematics of belief
on a wet bartop
watching another fading star
dying right before my shaded eyes
at the penultimate open mic
tell me something technical
tell me something physical
tell me something beneficial
just before you become
exactly what you should be
in the anomalistic year of paucity
preceding the shifting of natures balance
toward anorexia nervosa