Monday, August 29, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Famous is embalmed;
Famous is ringed round by a sunami of malignant mirrors;
Famous is insane but every one pretends you’re not;
Famous is main lining false epiphanies;
Famous is gargling a tall glass of your own piss.
Famous begins with advice, ends up with egotistical moralism;
Famous is fitted for a suit of historically acceptable megalomanias;
Famous is Vladimir
Become a Barbie doll for the Russian Chamber of Commerce;
Famous is when they pin medals on your naked chest
But you don’t bleed cause you are dead;
Famous is the nose hook pushed up
And the brains pulled out on the mortician’s tray;
Famous is a dance of corpses where every one claps
But secretly they are horrified.
This is why I want to be famous;
Hungry ghost, stapled stomach,
Rolled out thin on a thousand pound press;
Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Friday, August 12, 2011
My boss is a pear shaped manikin,
Fiery martian face,
Metal wheels spitting sparks, bits of concrete,
Racing corridors searching out miscreants with her X ray vision.
My boss is a victim of brain fever,
Inflammation of the pancreas;
Evenings she receives messages from distant planets,
Wears chain mail underwear, dresses cut from sheets of aluminum.
Her desk drawers are stuffed with death warrants, charred writs of Habeas Corpus.
Listen up she says,
Swinging a steel hip,
Reconstructed from the pistons of an amputated locomotive;
‘Now hear this!’ she says, chrome fingers flailing titanium armpits.
‘Didn’t I say?’
But she’s in a good mood this morning,
Smile a phalanx of filed incisors.
‘Listen!’ she says,
Milk of human kindness filling her wild red eyes;
‘Listen!’ she says. ‘Let’s be reasonable.’
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Parisians hated the watery rice,
Lack of wine, civilized amenities;
The marshes were stinking sinkholes;
The muddy fields execrable abominations.
They have friends, they said,
Who would gladly replace them with statues and fountains.
‘And you, my good man,’ they said to me,
‘are a depraved rustic, a semi literate bumpkin.’
Which is true.
Then they smoked opium and entered a trance.
I dug a new drainage ditch and composed six poems.
Upon awaking they snorted cocaine
And fondled one another’s genitals.
Afterwards they left in a railway car
Painted with scenes of ancient cathedrals.
I still love Marcel Proust and Charles Baudelaire,
But can find no solace in semiotics or hyper intellection.
They left behind four thousand books, which,
In an inquisitorial mood, I tossed into the fire.
Now the cabin is warm as toast
And in the mists above the dugout my visitor’s ghosts
Are suspended in a passion of disbelief and weeping.
The next day I leapt through my left earlobe
And came out the other side processed in stainless steel.
I lay upon a bed of nitrogen
Covering myself with plutonium rods.
Of course my earrings were of human flesh but no matter.
And yet when I looked through my enhanced eyeballs
I saw the world exactly as I saw it before!
All that and still rolling in the human bubble!
All that and my nose still exactly eighty-seven degrees from my left eye socket!