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)