Friday, June 19, 2015

Morbidly Obtuse

Today's students aren't what they used to be. They used to be literally not even, ugh. They attended dog parties. It was all for charity...until it wasn't. The sun blew up.

A new anthem was called for, but never gassed us. My cot collapsed under us. Well, I guess you have to sneak up on the past in order to change it. But shy away from media, both old and new—it's a sort of notorious gown that wears us, pleads us down to shreds.

Hold me closer, tinny stanza. Speak to your financial advisor.

I must confess I'm at a loss for nuance when obliged to enforce my feelings for modern architecture. Half the time I can't even find the bathroom. Not that I like to banter there. I always feel like I'm being punished for someone I didn't do. (That ass and a cup of coffee will buy you a leaky weekend.)

In any case, it's a nice day to polish one's own inevitability, really get it glowing. It looks good on an adjunct professor's soft tissue, like an ejaculation dribbled from the mouth of a marble statesman. No, really! Check it out—a little French cadaver presses "play" on his pistol

and history's hairy eyeball ignites the hay in which we roll, die, etc.

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Whipped Syllabub

Dag Hammarskjöld would make a pretty porn name
For a little born-again tornado-chaser. So why not
Bury your boner at sea and eat it too?

(Harass my meatus and I'll have your badge.)
My heart is so fruitless it's a vegetable
But I'm more than a happy toilet accident.

Nor does exposed brick engorge me.
Money rolls off the tongue too sprightly;
Soccer is a symptom of depression.

It pays to hate-fuck an abstraction; tomorrow I'm
Not done reliving. (This poem could use a hobby
Or a broken ATM with absentee parents.) Don't you

Try to silt-shame the same river twice! Do you
Cotton to a sheep's-eye view? Bleed all you want but
A rainbow's beauty's not a black-and-white issue.

Monday, June 8, 2015

Between Hard Places

I thought I'd found a perfect darkness
where I could read in peace.

The night that brought the truth home
was revealed to be a false note

in some jokester's hoary melody
dragged out of the fire.

Down deserted streets it slept.
Folded newspapers excommunicated.

I accused a black hole of sucking
at my peril. It was a good day

for getting out of town.
The Swiss know what's up: the Alps,

Herr und Frau, out on a Sunday stroll
with their little foothills.

In America loom erections
like postage rate increases.

Only the post-coital
can save us now.

Dire endings keep me occupied,
but I have what I need:

a few shaggy arias, a steady outcome,
a weakness for a blonde in armor.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

A Short Goodbye

We took a lot of pride in our druthers. The fat sky
cradled us demotically; in short order
the forest was adjourned. Who lurks there now?
It gets hard to see as night falls

out of favor with the dead. Teased into being,
it begins to warm to your subjectivity
even as mine cools off. Stripped
to its merest identity, a song one once despised
is what one imagines anew
in lieu of an evening's elastic embrace.

That done, one is free to
usurp a throne or two, to open
one's heart for a closer view. Faceless
yet unafraid, I stood hip-deep in your thoughts,
whose train had up and left. Well then, I said,
have a nice life, and a good weekend.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Good News

I heard about your nudity. Congrats! It's a fitting
denouement to our crumbling infrastructure,

petty as a picture. Tossing it aside, I'm all dreamed up
with no lawn to mow. I bought a vacuum

but soon abhorred it. Please to reserve me
a relevant doughnut; it's time

for a new beginning, the last ever.
What an expected surprise! And sorrow!

I'm wearing important underwear now
whose grace knows no natural predator.

Sunday, May 31, 2015


Nobody puts coleslaw in a corner
(to parade around the obvious).

Allow me to beg the question to differ
right before your eyes:

Who's on first? The whole team,
I'm afraid; looks like the airline

isn't going to reimburse them.
Boy, if there's one thing I hate

it's got to be worth my life, if not my limb—
as when the street presents a face

too timely to turn to in despair,
you feel me? I'm a guy who loves

a clean, unobstructed sight line.
I would marry it in a heartbeat

just to appease its sorry ass, but
nobody wants that kind of publicity.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Sweet Meteor

In days of dark refrigeration, Sasquatch put on his thinking cap
and that decided me: no more drumhead trials before bath time.

Play instead your violet violin, sweet meteor—it's not the sea,
it's the tranquility. The coast is alive with focus groups,

each one more focused, more fecund, than the last.
Smell what I'm selling? Joyous emissions clog the annals

of common courtesy, worlds away from their former precocity.
Just below the surface, visibility is reduced to begging;

laundry gets lost in the offing. Whatever's left is all that
remains of our misspelled misanthropy. One breath is as

charmed as another, be it bated or belated; you can call me
out to catch mine as fast as my phoned-in departure allows.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Smell You Later

Better shove off. It's time to flush beauty
from incredulity's redoubt. Good luck

doesn't apply here, let alone matriculate.
Professor Pleasure's gone away; rainbows

scared him, blasting in through windows,
introducing all new semen spray—

a single serving will light up the coast for a day
or so. Yes, the universe picked your nose

and that's impregnable, but you asked for
nothing less. Don't we all, before we go?

Monday, May 18, 2015

In Your Absence

It's always sex o'clock somewhere.
In honor of my outsider status
I present you with medicine
conceived in liberty, swallowed
in 3-D. That'll set the swan song swinging
if anything will; they say it's a cozy time
to be alive, and they would know
who know how to drive.

Heat, stern wife to humidity, is moving
upon us, will question us shortly.
Quick, tell me again about your gag reflex.
Presently I'll belly up and
snooze, squeezed in among archaic torsos.
Far away, across the street, it's Saturday night.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Cave of Else

Light up and seal a cloud in your maw
While in the free meal there's an outrage
Falling all over a hard-on in season

Isn't it better than piano notes on a prayer
Glued to a chair or a cure for zero
Mentions in minutes out of gloom writhing high

Now take some stabs and harass a leaf
Until it's a splendor unequaled, the pride
Of a mountain in the prime of wife

Under whose coat the sun's painted on
This little wonder is proud to pump
Agreeably with or without a cause

You'll never hear the end of before
We become a cave of else rocked back
On a new can-do attachment

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Noses in Spring

Her souped-up mirror shines
A little death in my ear
The size of a wish list;
There's no mall for that, no rat-

Faced amnesiac or
Furry friend to fend off
The curb of your slurp
(Do you know where your lips are?)

A city grows noses in spring
To bait your ennui
So fap to it or lose it, up a tree
Without a poodle

Don't gimme that
Charley-horse whinny
You know what fear brought:
A calendar home in disrepair

Whose teeth flunked out and got
Freaky on the god channel—
Oh yeah man, He was mad calm
And très debonair

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Spring Song

The deep red laugh of morning is lost
on the afternoon's hollowed-out shadow

souped up like a grave to make you
yawn and neighbor no further feather—

Don't buy that bull, go place an order
for whatever juices the sun applauds

in your voice's amnesia's endeavor.
Smother your echo in wet cement,

there to be merrily, merrily loved by
the dawn's early vocab forever.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Cloud Pleaser

Not every cloud is a pun to be unmasked
over the heads of unreliable witnesses.
Tell it to the sweetheart, judge. We're talking
weird of my couch's intransigence—

its question bedevils the hottest verb action
for whose sake one takes a walk
blind eyes shed fingerprints on.

Reduced to a skeleton mutiny, let's creep
out the wind no end, reading roughshod
all the way to the riverbank; let's defend
our pain from prick militias—

our bunker of saviors is kinda funny,
is indeed what makes the bomb so horny.

Forget money: I house my identity in my kiss,
asleep in the right direction, though I know
my freedom to see so makes me a meat
mistake, crying into my smile's hand.

Monday, April 6, 2015

The Operative Word

There was a free way of thinking I read about
but never acted on, opting out for love
of the operative word that resides
wherever it's never found.