O but fathom my heart’s beleaguered forfeit, some merry hack-job in blackest panties, romance pro-rata
The best poem ever: O Death Where is Thy Sting or, tea-bagging a milf smoking a photocopied cigarette
[ignoring him] Nor is any loss abstract-able. Whose fearful pomp delivers crucial salmon –
The day is goaded ’cross the tripwire of her smile
[starts quoting Veronica Forrest-Thompson then thinks better of it] a.k.a. no slack resplendent, your faded corpse-paint edits only less frenetic self-inflicted; the bookends of our lives are sound & song
Put a Breendonk on it asshole – Aeolian is all, and I the reed. In ’76 I caught a glimpse of everything, the darkness spread thin as ink, her fingernails cute as sugared almonds
Squinting at the legislature foreshortens the money-shot. Any mouth is theoretically compromised if all you do is rip & run
[balks, incredulous] & fuck you very much – the chapter headed Scourge of the Dialectic cross-fades all blissful-like unto the setting sun
[increasingly agitated] My rank protectorate so discharged, night terrors come in caravans to mix my blood with olive oil & tear me a new one. This fear completes me.
This whole screwy cosmogony chides us with spirit propaganda [sings] 1, 2, buckle my shoe, 3, 4, murder a whore
Odi et amo… But most of all, I love my job.
It is finished in ignorance and blessed with caustic irony. How may any man Not love and be deceived?
A little something called Chain of command, shitbird. Lord knows I’m tired of this existentialist tourette’s, hetero-throats & death breath… [he begins to weep, gently] I bury my head in her digital bosom –
– and show me yr tits on chat roulette. I love you back but it comes out pebble-dash; fuck you & fuck the bosses. The poem is a plug.
[aside] And the smoke hangs in the air Like smoke.