Week Three

Eh, Sisyphus?

Eh, can your wanderings appease me,

Sisyphus?

Daily, I doodle while you blab--

unscathingly brilliant at nothing.

Can ye dance, Marionette?

Have yer strings been tied

to the above things

of thine older toothpaste ads?

Ye dance is unsubtle,

ye return to yer man in the tub,

the one who offered you mud for some rubble.

Your habits fulfilled the famine of the Almighty's madness.

Say, can ya count?

Have ya no ink on yer fingers! dark

child with bad habits,

dragged from the basement to an attic, high-rise?

Back to the basement, I imagine

if Sisyphus ever slept.

Dozen Odds With Word Choice, Things Her Maker Will Thrust

A Great Gas Station Prophet,

immobilized with the force of everything,

lit up a pile of gasoline:

The Great Gas Station Poet Sings,

reciting the memorized youthful phrases:

a) don't beat yer child unless ya make them minimum wages.

The Great Gas Station Singer emerges

toward a pile of womens and ends

with a pile of loose drags and forceful sorcery urges sans amends.

The Great Gas Station Sinner thins, wordless,

the iniquities of them blues singers

bring him back inside again.

The Great Fires of Godless Space Combust!

The sugarpie lining of his skin becomes crust!

His eyeballs and steering wheel and mind become rust!

godless purpose, must binge, bring yer pages, frozen

A. On Concrete Life; B. On thee Fleshly Thrills;

C. On Contradictions on God; D. On the Never-Land God

Fly, great things--

child's dead after he's

killed. Harm comes. A fun

man, well, brings. Ain't we from cruel seed?

When them stories flung thine daughter

lucky, some laughin'

wondrous grins an' spinning

clover. Man, I earn those bowls:

delight, group sex, a wash machine.

Thine daughter,

if a cry of commands

cues mass screens, walls can sin indeed.

Read, line after line,

as He gifted his rooms:

Him will forfeit.

Free Write, Friday, January 25, 2008

Chaotic Cosmos Dream I

Griefstricken,

Cosmically, I blunder.

And to wander about them smitten

underneath the thunder:

spun wonder

with the grace of a chicken.

The buttons

of our daughters are unraveling,

 their forgotten undersomethin's

fought harder than a star's unsaddling.

I dabble with the gods a lot, rambling

about the Jupiter muffins.

The grace of god,

But what is it (translation: what is he?)?

A first cause,

FLAWed? Great Probability?

Does that even mean anything?

Hope, I ought not.

What is the standard of perfection?

What can be infinite?

We are the first cause of these word-inventions--

abstractions as illogical as universal minutes.

But wait, I isn't finished.

Did the matador defy convention?

Week Two

Ink is Murder

As I sit and try to write,

I mostly think of the clinically insane,

and a poem only occurs when it's tamed.

Let yer fovea see me intolerable fits:

just for a minute, a ciggy, a sit,

a prying ball pit,

flying; fall in the future;

Super Tourists flooding into Houston;

mostly the divine seek praises

and showers of gold but use waste

tastelessly, grabbing the goat and girlfriend of a nearby fiend.

"Jealous of the glory," they claim--

a shame.

Purple horses and horsepill anxiety

fishpipe womansailor fornicator brainpower

gloating the games of lawnmower neighbors forever

claiming the trust of the tourist craze.

Sleep in, Sleep Out, Wake Up! Walk off.

Green gory gangrene ghosts of glory.

Mean stories and preen host stuffs or eats.

The east is a castle for magic,

a beast sits on, past full floor mattresses.

And there it is:

the Vicar calls it a creative process,

I call it slaughter.

a cow, going into the machine:

beheaded: guillotined; ripped open,

sterilized, meat for the women.

Taciturn Timmy, 

(that's his perm, thinning)

Taciturn Timmy is different than most,

He swallows others' insides; towards Heaven he floats.

His friends follow their mothers and fight for the Ghost.

And Taciturn Timmy just thinks this is gross.

Taciturn Timmy

with his cotton-ball eyes

and eyes wide,

he's thinning

[and did you see his waistline? he's sure getting skinny!].

Sinner sinning is the meeker,

bleaker is the wins of the believer,

the Sin is the Power, you see, sir.

Do thee prefer men in the freezer?

Fine, then soak toast with the fires forever.

Chase, Fall, Caterpillar, Creep, Call

And my father was talking about Superman.

"Sir, I believe without a doubt, you sure can!"

FATHER free the fleshliness within me:

Step One: scrape the skin till   I   bleed.

Yet,  um,   wait.   A    men will  I   be. 

Certain the matter is finished, I sleep:

Serving fodders to the ceiling fan, I walk

toward a telephone, and reinterpret the numbers.

Fumbling, I feel the numbers and they feel numb

or burning, switching between the two.

Underneath the furnace I tame the numbers,

and the numbers surface, call mine name,

"Thine is the world in which you inhabit,"

the numbers babbled, in the form of this prim rabbit.

I knelt and felt its knitted insides and sides!

cotton unrusty, brushing my fur,

I become what I adore, and to her I order:

My brain is on fire, squelch the burning

or border my mind to keep it from spewing.

Slurringly, I am doing what I sort of forced.

But now my slant is frozen, of course.

Notes:

Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit (video by alifighter)

Week One

Feed the Hungry

Sentenced,

the bubble gum-kisser inclined.

She'd bitten garish cinammon,

smitten and under-scented, but musky.

Trust, the girl sees, as a solemn phrase,

swollen tastes from Seldom Ways,

when one will emit and un-waste a somber space.

Sniffing glue seldom receives such high praise.

Actually, smolten cocaine leaves a girl quite hungry,

but actually, she needs apples in peace,

surrounded by the Vietnames, capisce?

The prisoner, poison-pissed, sits atop a pretty girl's lisp, reads:

"Thee, I got the candieth."

The girl has spent her senses and gotten her intestines twisted

over cinammon fishes (childish, but sinful).

They, the gummy, got crushed an' assaulted,

crass an' bloated. He whom has created the Golden Bridge,

but forgotten the kindness of candy, shall have their flesh

washed away for eternity: the next century.

And the children fight, unpolite. Filled with the sight, I rightly plead:

"It's my turn, you see."

"If you exist a human

Then you can

Understate the importance of a craving."

     - Me, a guy drafted by the grocery store aisle Navy!

Baklava

Breakfast as King!

Living advantageously,

violent asthma

I'll Know When I'm Ten Feet Tall

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms

(A Children's Guide to the Five Senses:

Smack-smack, you can hear.

Ooh, earth tones, you can see.

Mmm, fried mushrooms! you can smell.

Squishy, squishy, you can feel.)

Fuck, what's the other sense?

Regardless, what I was saying:

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms,

I was listening to

Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd.

I wanted to see if

the auditory hallucinatoory sounds

would synchronize with the eating of

my mushrooms.

The results were sad,

as sad as the

feeble mushroom's body between my thumb and index finger, or as sad

as the saxophone in "Us and

Them," or as pathetic as the archaic

dirt covering its outsides, extinct races,

dried-blood light brown.

I'm as homebound as the smell of those fried mushrooms.

I wish I could remember the other sense.

Fuck. Sorry if I offended you, that was stupid.

I should watch my tongue.

Week One Notes:

Pink Floyd - Us and Them (video by rrempel)

These do not include the poems above. These are just the more literary notes for the assignment.

Grandma says, “Girl that sits alone is girl alone forever.” I didn’t buy this. I would never. Besides, Grandma is full of shit. She think’s she’s clever, but she really isn’t—she lacks wit. Of course, she’s definitely better than old Elanna DeWitt. “Have you heard about her and her letters! The girl rote all that was writ! But in front of her brain of a lever, there’re eyes that’re deep as a pit.” Grandma says this while a sweater she knits.

Cheesecake is where we slept. It is the softest most sickening fabric I’ve had to digest. Eh, I digress. I would compare it to a Brazilan face that’s about to molest.

Fried mushrooms are made up of the inside of an atomic bomb, and also the outside. The insides are nuclear. The outsides are a shell that’s about to unravel, exploding with the atomic euphoria of the mushroom itself, its juices, its destruction. I.Moist under stuff. II. Holy rapture. III. Ovular or mount. Mostly us sleep hushed right over our mother’s stuff.

Baklava is a mountain full of godsaliva, a promised land, the meal of the few and of those about to inherit wisdom and beauty. Breakfast as King! Living advantageously, voraciously asthmatic.

Cheesecake: Cheap harlot eater / easier sex, 'cept cheaper, / always kills enough.

Mushrooms: Moist underneath stuff. / Holy Rapture: ovular, / ornate, mountainous stalk.