woodpecker of my dreams
tenderly bangs his beak
into my brain as I enter
a bubble of orange pink and gold...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Seance of Ecstacy
In the calamine lotion graveyard the tender zombie flesh
is ressurected by the etheric twang of broken banjo music
Father Potatoe presides over this seance for the squeamish
they are clad in fannypacks and sandals, their water bottles
bubble with some fine august moonshine witchhazel brew
volcanoe..pantsuit..aardvaark...souflee...words comingle
nonsense brainfreeze..oh bubble and squeak she says-
Mrs. Butterworth's sausage fingers flex in the European moonlite
as she begins to talk in tongues, her arms and legs akimbo
gothic makeup drooling like a crying drunken clown...
is ressurected by the etheric twang of broken banjo music
Father Potatoe presides over this seance for the squeamish
they are clad in fannypacks and sandals, their water bottles
bubble with some fine august moonshine witchhazel brew
volcanoe..pantsuit..aardvaark...souflee...words comingle
nonsense brainfreeze..oh bubble and squeak she says-
Mrs. Butterworth's sausage fingers flex in the European moonlite
as she begins to talk in tongues, her arms and legs akimbo
gothic makeup drooling like a crying drunken clown...
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Holiday Weekend
Clad in acid-washed jean-shorts
with my patriotic fanny-pack
sippin' on a Hi-Test and
munching on some KFC
I assemble a Lego wolfman
as I listen to Debussy...Not!
with my patriotic fanny-pack
sippin' on a Hi-Test and
munching on some KFC
I assemble a Lego wolfman
as I listen to Debussy...Not!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
FOR ARTHUR RIMBAUD
FOR ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Sad purple photograph face
Downloaded into eternity
Rimbaud’s soft voice
Sings thru radio static
You are now one with the Sun
And the atrocious Moon
Will no longer haunt
Your drunken boat of roses
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Poetry is Big Business Payday for You!
I'm going to step up to the plate
I'm going to be trending now
Now and then I'm a Zen goldfish
Painted by the ghost of Mattise
I'm going on a shopping spree
Spending all of my poetry loot
I'm gonna blow the whole kit and kaboodle
On a imported designer onion
Maybe next year I can afford a lemon
So I can suck the golden flesh
My puffy lips will be swollen
Like Lindsay Lohan in jail
I'm going to be trending now
Now and then I'm a Zen goldfish
Painted by the ghost of Mattise
I'm going on a shopping spree
Spending all of my poetry loot
I'm gonna blow the whole kit and kaboodle
On a imported designer onion
Maybe next year I can afford a lemon
So I can suck the golden flesh
My puffy lips will be swollen
Like Lindsay Lohan in jail
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
So were sweating like a Maine coon cat in July, like a fat man sipping soup, like Joan Rivers melting face. Because he said anorexia nervosa is the luxury of the leisure class. We enter a bay made from plastic and spastic turquoise paint. Dear intellectuals: you need not apply for the position of Rasputin’s chicken. You belong on Hollywood Squares- totally L7, Clark Kent glasses glazed by secretions of laptop malaise. What fun this is to see you nearly naked on the boob-tube. Oh uranium in birdbones, drizzle weaving the names of lovers who salivated feasting on blue heron backbones muted and bulbous typhoon of carbonation. Let us hibernate in quantum flare space with Chili and Gribble, acid-etched photons in the ocean floating feral ammonia kisses on the earlobe scar, the blizzard of wishes bending mirrors of the funhouse flesh. Oh lingerie pillow fight party in my kidney-shaped pool full of gin. Oh blasphemous modern dancer with androgynous haircut, your nervy fortune telling is a ticket to the Museum of Modern Failure. The bird they were going to eat stands up straight, adjust her kaleidoscope and pops like a bubble with your new lover’s name on it. Sunflower flamingo, oh octopus oracle, outlaw of the sensorium, please be my gift horse in the mouth.
Like a piece of meat at Vegetarian Disneyland
The chicken pecks at the mirror
but the mirror doesn’t break
Because we live in Victoria
And broken mirrors are against the law
But the mirror in Tokyo
Floats underwater caressed by sharks
The mirror in mexico is
Smeared with bloody cocaine
The mirror in Sao Paulo
Scatters fragrance to voodoo wind
The mirror in New York
Is very expensive and broken
Into nine million pieces of art
Black dog licks the mirror
With a hot pink popsicle tongue
Like a piece of meat
At vegetarian Disneyland
There are puppets with chainsaws
Carving up the mahogany mouse
The mouse that roared a billion squeaks
That shined a trillion cartoon shoes
The mouse inside the mirror
Is an uber rodent from the fifth dimension
But back in Victoria queen of the cat gang Sheba
Prowls in the perfumed dawn of spring
And soon a perplexed rodent dangles
In this fluffy hunter’s jaws
Lemonade for Infidels
When the cyclone hits
I will begin to bedazzle
The painted wooden high-chair
Our Siamese twin sleeps in
Bosco is a Communist
His scraggly beard cake-crumbed
No amount of shaving
Will make him renounce donuts
Spontaneous combustion
Has always been my pal
Down by the happy train-tracks
Greasy Pete drinks aftershave
I will begin to bedazzle
The painted wooden high-chair
Our Siamese twin sleeps in
Bosco is a Communist
His scraggly beard cake-crumbed
No amount of shaving
Will make him renounce donuts
Spontaneous combustion
Has always been my pal
Down by the happy train-tracks
Greasy Pete drinks aftershave
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