eats / spinach


Suck on lethal serpent; the complex
details of a diamond design mister
are movement. Motion might likely
spectaculate sod, buster, a dead
man coverlet under a stark guitar
soundtrack obscured. Someone twice
stated an oblivious fact. The ugly
was made into an elegant game:
pottery, porcelain, plumbing, the
poem, and then, of course, punk. Think
of that as a definition for nostalgia,
and then dapple that into indelible
splat and thus as a matter of style.
The necrotomist is also a mother
who blasphemes while earning some
bargain buckle prosthesis aside; she
moon lilts as a wringer of popular
verse, and her porn by god goes over
whale with pubic hair grasping scamps.
Flimsy instead on a two legged table,
the precocious artifact rocks in a hey
baby swoon, and why not, another
crappy decoy for duck. Her sister’s
a him, and he isn’t thin. Initiate
first third in an obtuse and dim lit
barroom, gamble crack duel by mambo.
It’s yet another drunken delight. The
real man never fails to risk deadly
snake venom, and if he has the bucks,
he stashes his cobras in a Ming
dynastic vase baptizing them Three
Friends of Winter, pine, plum, and
bamboo, the virtues of which demand
an idealized scholar in a womanly
getup, an opportune and perpetual
spoof as only proper. How I hate
the semicolon yet, rather admire
those words which get cleverly stolen.
Strangely shaped rock which a tribe
has two ways of counting, the world
of perpetual solitude forever inoperant,
bad lemons and pop eye who always eats
spinach, I am a wise man driven by an
intestinal wind to crave a burly drink
of deep gasolines. But then that is
nothing. Whenever the ruby lips of
an automatic weapon rip loose with
preludes, I proclaim contest time
in mutual stupidity. Who writes the
rules? I apply a hammer to my own
right kneecap, an obvious improvement.
I chew broken glass shards, swallow
and puncture my eyelids with scissors,
merely acting on one mounting urge to
make something wrong and thus pad my
vitae with bold theoretical charades
which someone subsequently mistakes as
an affront. Hungers and thirsts and
why I aim to heat up a planet, I suffer
a perpetulant concussion I found in a
book. I refer to that as a need to
be published and so commonly venerate
this face oh ersatz [mine!] self.


No Responses Yet to “eats / spinach”

  1. Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: