'let's

Let's hear it
For the down
And outers.

Deep Cleaning

1.
periastron splogs
recreational
autism now
to believe oneself brave
is to be brave
darkest corner of the veldt

2.
the line
of demarcation
word following word
up to my eyebrows in sleep
that ride
in the back of the pickup
somehow still
the light upon her

barry the slug

A valid case / an intact case / blood pours spout like from mutually exploded heads / without realism / without the boring detail of the dominant narrative / just a red gush / thankfully fake / tender trickles of wine wind round the neck / drunken kisses on throat / slice corporality / routine thought and its shabby rigmarole / and so she blows out my brains / and withers my cock / throttled violently / shamefully / fully / emptied across dictators mouths / lame sampled writing / the jizz / the jizz / he grumbles rubbing shaven head / a slug rides a toboggan down a razors’ edge…

Cod Sissies and Sweetmeat

The dogmen ate calcareous-algae dredged up from the bottom of the aqueduct. They made sculls from briar root and fichus gum, pitching the wood into hand-sized algae scours. The biggest of the dogmen stood on shore directing the other dogmen, pointing and gesticulating with his chopped pork hands. They bayed like mastiffs, necks twisted, eyes rolling back into the give of their skulls. When they’d brought up enough algae the biggest dogmen let out a piercing whistle, the other dogmen wading slowly into shore, arms battened with green cuprous weeds. They laid out the algae to dry, poaching the hard stems with boiled water drawn from the aqueduct. They ate like thieves, jaws muscling shreds of green milky weed, cheeks swollen red.

‘…lousy cod bastards…!’ yawed the alms man unyieldingly, ’…never to soon to learn a new jig, scat cunts…!’ He missed a mile by a foot and dallied to the left, then the right, then right of centre and back, never once loosing a foothold on the jiggering jig. ‘…when piss can fly…’. ‘…when prigs can fly?’ offered Dejesus geeing, ‘…you mean prigs, of course?’ The alms man felt for the sullied spot on his trousers, between the fifth pocket and the fob, and said ungallantly ‘…cod sissies can piss on a prigs fly for all I care…sissy cod bastards…!’ ‘…or up a rope’ said Dejesus. ‘…whore down it for all I give…’ ministered the alms man. ‘…whore indeed’ said Dejesus, halfcock flaunting. ‘…’tis a shameful sight, by Lord, these dogmen with their flints and carob hats,…bastards…!’ ‘…and not very mindful of their manners…’added Dejesus. ‘…not a truth of a lie there, by any stretch of the a pagination!’ The dogmen milled about lying out streamers of weed-green algae to soak in the sun. The biggest of the dogmen lit his cob and tallied a draw, cheeks sacking inwards. The water rose forebodingly, a shiner’s kip of cuprous weed willowing to the top.

because they were expendable

Seva ego held · dapple help
   paddle hog · eaves
never pierce · carbonaceous I:
receive of cat grow · Beltline
dapple help sink sculsh

Sakartvelo (mapless)*

mountain                       we live with
out map                       saints will
heart of                      toil lost
will a map                       a toll least
mountain                        always the
saint of the                       mountain
we live cart                       crack track
wheels burn                       ing up the
path mount                       house lost
time ale too                        map less
lost lost                        mou lit
aints ill                       soul place
aspect                       saint as it
into age                       saint of maps

ragged tear                                            start of the
hills                                             staging ground
test blast                                             mount cannon
doubt of                                            the hills
starting with                                            lines, state
mound                        of the map
poss                      ast                      drac  kkk
saints of                        war, state of
the moun                                                                  tain, stage
out rest                                            the map, the cart
the caste                        less make
margin leak                                            oil star
wheels of pipe                                            path, map

The Beach

My girlfriend and I were at the beach when she commented on how appealing she found a seagull that was eating nearby. I told her that it wasn’t cute, that it might not even really be a bird.

Coverage of the Coverage Begins Now

poontang Bildungsroman
skim soy latte

start playing the Krazy Kat

just now on Cooper Street

He seems like someone
comfortable
running meetings
of consequence
in oaky boardrooms
tall, thin, cleanshaven
in a wellcut dark suit
but just now on Cooper Street
he is grimly silent
his shoulders
hunch forwardown
chin tucks to chest
and he tries to hurry
defensively clutching
three plastic sacks
high end take-home
cut flower bouquet
nice bottle of wine
a halfdozen hurried,
near-scuttling steps
ahead of the young man
he implausibly ignores.

The younger man's
unsettled eyes
are electricbright
in his twisting face
even shadowed over by
a ballcap in early twilight,
freelance court jester
running behind
dancing jumping pointing
shrieking againandagain
at the older man's
stoic beetleshell back
"You don't want to know it!
But you need to know it!

French kiss (for the Leos)

My language to your teeth
It's a fraise it's a rose, a rose that opens and
Collapses, crushed
The break syntactic, modifier dangling
For I have changed mouths exchanged mine for this bloom
But wet, you know, like song, paroles, one term, then two
Touch the toi of your mouth topping out
A tip of my hat
A thumb, an annulaire
Bringing pressure to bear on
The ridge like a vague, an inverted v
I'm drinking your draught
Bouche bout en bout, but blue, bue
Whatever, métro Sèvres-
Babylone, tes coupes aux lèvres
Rub rough just enough the press of
Oh there's water
Just enough
Not too much
Just to drink (me) not to drown (me)
Verbs swallowed in all our suavia
A tribute to the others, linking
Us to baby-coloured acts
And apostles' flesh, the chair being
Yours, and suasion enough
Surf's up