The Ballad of Fannie and Freddie
they will live without books now
they have left all they had with us
über-trendy
green perforce
(narp2
tweaked)
operation sandman
an atlas of slave armies
non-aquatic apes
neurotypical Gallium
decides spork or foon
the last best summation of spirit
clarity’s denied by rascals. charity’s depicted by saints
with their arms bucket-deep in the paint-barrel. terror
to the Sun—pox materia. this morsel we drammed for
skinny pickings while spring began to distract the monastery,
before the vikings came. my community is a pillar
of light, the pillar of conception, of conceptualization. if you
dream of God, of the Sun, this is non-present—post-
entity—but we can paint it on our walls. the sainthood is
democratic (if only you knew that word). wet-behind-the-ears,
meaning that dislodges the terminal, breaks the sky
open for its own skin. the black apostle couching nevermore in
his own cell. that one’s tusk is good for bleach and moons
and lightbeams. this one on the wall behind is special:
the last best friend of Jesus. we are all furtive sparks in this
cloistered zone, cut off with deliberate denial from
the universal man. reckoning chance with a basted heat
of memory, with a little frustration thrown in, hazing
loiterers for the husky Savior— too much parsimony, Wanderer.
terror from the Sun, is our teaching. cowering in shade along
the colonnade, but paint is soul. Augusting, your bleeding good
from abomination is a means to clarify the palette and cleanse
the smeary brushes in the studio. the good erodes.
The Unusual Constant
Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began.
Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably.
Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check.
People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists.
A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May.
A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things.
You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dollops, crushing intent. A wave of pity associates with crinoline like an apron that could be the next political move. Storage consists of wet bars, and the clutter of Soviet intention.
Children of cocktails bury mesmerized mice in downy softness. Allegiance is priceworthy. Pick a planet to annoy, grey leader.
The poem, scarred by Star Trek (The Next Generation), flirts for the new decade. New decades promulgate new headaches. A doctor wears the pants of morose technology, tuckered out by golf stretches and moonbeams. Cocktails and crunchy things provide situational ethics for the blast off generation.
Bulked up servings of crunch, snap, and apt phrases drone from the crinoline depths of the future train pathway, long before pwned. Indeed, campers sit in the festoon of broken crackers, klaxon cocktails, bungled wobble. The sentence is incentive now. Adjectives are loose.
Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably.
Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check.
People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists.
A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May.
A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things.
You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dollops, crushing intent. A wave of pity associates with crinoline like an apron that could be the next political move. Storage consists of wet bars, and the clutter of Soviet intention.
Children of cocktails bury mesmerized mice in downy softness. Allegiance is priceworthy. Pick a planet to annoy, grey leader.
The poem, scarred by Star Trek (The Next Generation), flirts for the new decade. New decades promulgate new headaches. A doctor wears the pants of morose technology, tuckered out by golf stretches and moonbeams. Cocktails and crunchy things provide situational ethics for the blast off generation.
Bulked up servings of crunch, snap, and apt phrases drone from the crinoline depths of the future train pathway, long before pwned. Indeed, campers sit in the festoon of broken crackers, klaxon cocktails, bungled wobble. The sentence is incentive now. Adjectives are loose.
look for me in
lok for m lock fo
lek from saoe
form me a
for me
look for me
not in
weeds of words
leek form a knot
in never won
known never ne
verda vorte text
lock form
and lock horns
and look for me not
in the thewordman
ne more
(wheaten fields
of digitalis and iPhones
have choked the life
from that old handl)
but but beat bat
tomloops@gmail.com
callow spiders, brazen yams
mackers,
iiu yiu giaow
several seepes
turn tree aat the tort
blast wasn't pound
sedge wasn't blake
steep wasn't
looping looping looping
lek from saoe
form me a
for me
look for me
not in
weeds of words
leek form a knot
in never won
known never ne
verda vorte text
lock form
and lock horns
and look for me not
in the thewordman
ne more
(wheaten fields
of digitalis and iPhones
have choked the life
from that old handl)
but but beat bat
tomloops@gmail.com
callow spiders, brazen yams
mackers,
iiu yiu giaow
several seepes
turn tree aat the tort
blast wasn't pound
sedge wasn't blake
steep wasn't
looping looping looping
I
I imagine you and I,
Us Together... We are both there, Finally Alone...
Here
Us Together... We are both there, Finally Alone...
Here
LOST in
The moment where we meet and feel the others heart race,
Our first blind embrace.
Heavy Breathing...
Chests heaving...
That moment caught in time, when we melted into one another.
That moment, where there is...
The moment where we meet and feel the others heart race,
Our first blind embrace.
Heavy Breathing...
Chests heaving...
That moment caught in time, when we melted into one another.
That moment, where there is...
nothing but
believing
Believing, Blindly In LOVE
"In Love"
Believing, Blindly In LOVE
"In Love"
Poem #713
I have collected an army of ghosts. They are making a documentary about it. They is the BBC.
Gene Tierney plays herself as a ghost. All the other ghosts keep speaking in their ghost language about ghost things to the other ghosts which no one can see. This is how they frighten you, with their lack of details, their lack of structure, their general formlessness.
In the fall we will move on Dorchester, and if things go well, from there we will move inland reclaiming the world speck by speck.
Gene Tierney plays herself as a ghost. All the other ghosts keep speaking in their ghost language about ghost things to the other ghosts which no one can see. This is how they frighten you, with their lack of details, their lack of structure, their general formlessness.
In the fall we will move on Dorchester, and if things go well, from there we will move inland reclaiming the world speck by speck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)