a pretend genius broadsuction
nameless son of the south

part one: my so called childhood, indented

a slurp of tradition janks ox
  ygen into apologetic oxes, our daddy
in fields of green whom blisters
  pop, a portrait of
so fine and dandellion
a wife of the city
  before resurrection that holds
us indefinately, with
exiled lips: rips us, devoids us
  we can see clearly mother rampage
her daily chores
and slumber, a slob in mary's place
  come daddy night to pray
in gown so pretty
  the damned faggot had his
trousers lost, turn out the lights
and behold the end
of the metaphysical carnage

as it has us installed beforehand:
but now sleep, now triptyke, now rattle
with doorlike passion
my sworn one

fleeting absolute and handsome
the Valery of our time, hand in purse
down stairway, into the worship puddle
   wipes tears from brow
   wipes poem manhood mercy
that it is clearly she is a madame of sorts
   perhaps sailor with fuckable goldilocks
waiting on the bough to be
   have you say accepted toast roasted your personal
salvation whipped with closure, into your
   mumbling heart
   have you gone yet nicely abroad
the underneath and seen
   so plenty the goose springs alike?

inclothed was she, so sneezed and ever
   mississippi flooded and yet
plunged by horizons, the cry of
some furniture dragged across
   a room, in the library
   she sat face forward, as happens
   when reading a book

there are posters of the revolution
now available in fur for our swedish friends
don't hesitate, it might be too late

part two: and by the sperm divided

the sentinels were prepared in glistening
sunlight, and ran free for a change
then castrated before they could see
and they saw what was unseen for many
fleeting also, down surupy highways
cause, our reminiscent father figure

it came to a crossing, the promise
of a smile, fair lady tangled in locust
who spat fire, stirred blackbird and
wrote songs of a terrible beauty
all is stolen and kept hidden, even
zeus delightful on his bicycle, shouted

build us no more homes with chimney
mouth and asshole doorknob, please
i shall crush you to pebble and rock
with python arms and shape a circle
out of the dead and lead them across this
land of red, there is a bar up ahead

in the mind the great thinker sat
and plucked the grass with his toes
and looked up, upon wich the mind
dangled, i see you have come a long
way, it is quite amazing how well
this grass tickles, i could laugh a loud

part three: boogie woogie, old fart

boogie woogie, old fart
i have loved much, and gained
many a pounds, sometimes
violet, sometimes blue
my cruelty has flowered and colored
even the frames, i paint no longer
in silence, but instead
into the bodies themselves,
it is all an illusion, familiar
faces falling as in pause
into the cracks, disappears-
so boogie woogie, shake
that thing, ruffle and drain
pray the leaf has you not
remembered, pray into the well
and well beyond, a paper boat
with big black holes to breathe through
might appear slightly sudden, paint dries
embarrassed by the skies that
cannot be cupped, drips
only when birthed, and birthed only once
a vibration, a voice
sentimental boogie woogie why sit here
all by your lonesome, with
your cock in hand, boogie woogie
meanwhile there might be a moment
up by the old mill, a sparkle
and burnt to the ground
boogie, i had a dream of this place-
i can't recall what comes next
woogie, oh woogie
i can't even remember where i put
my head, maybe this is what is meant
maybe this is what happens after
as a storm, we are folded and hunged
upsidedown, people walk around
looking all human saying things like
hello, how do you do
it's a very absent-minded painting
it's very you-
and you and you and you,
boogie woogie say who birthed these
soulful expressions?
boogie woogie is this the end
of the universe?
i have so many answers to question
oh no, oh boogie
kiss me- hold me tight
hold me tonight
woogie boogie

part four: the incomplete masterpiece

there's too much pressure
too much pressure
i could say
i could say
i could say
see you in Vienna!
look, a sand dollar!
dwarfs are funny
don't forget to
brush your teeth
but nothing
would really make any difference

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vol. iii, issue i
feb 14, 2006