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A Special Edition of The East Village
Voluntary Complexity Movement the li(f)e you imagine i don't get nervous about was the letter H -- atomized -- in the sarcastic orange starling's dialogic crypto- love i've come to feel anywhere in time -- like it was a mound of venus: HAVE A GOOD DAY! if i don't write these poems i'll split open -- how's that for agony? two tall beige objective smokestacks & a wet heelprint. HAVE A GOOD PEACOCK! and when the inanimate objects talk back to me, i slap them. how else to ponder the inscrutable red R on sophistry's looming facade? labyrinth? thanato-biography? auto-genetics? the questions -- pointless, but warm -- are meant to emphasize the HOPPING nature of this poem's "internal (cough) logic": FESTIVAL. monk drags a gordian sack. man in fedora sticks tongue to chin. ESTEFANIA (comic porn) (conic pony)lurching over the hidden oculi. i had my vodka instead of giddy toxicity -- (cosmic pounce) the parched crevasses of my soul's weaker anchor spirata inflata incantata -- afflatus -- not divine -- invades the hidden oculi: spirala. ESTEFANIA! when naked eyes opened again. are you living your ME years to the max? do you totally want some kind of web-winged gremlin? it's sticky -- a mournful eye looking up at the peeling ceiling. and shone a torch -- on eyeballs' reticence drupelets oddity sexual spewing swift whiskeys ulgi dia rololnikov. let not the naked face of th'inconstant moon hold fast the spongey bars of my vocabulary in throes. a fraction of a fondle releases a small laugh -- in public -- so the endless parody of innocuousness becomes a form of artifice so pernicious as to privatize the poor gremlin's expressive freedoms. do i care about him? or the mendacious demons that come crawling out the hole in the upper left-hand corner of the aforementioned peeling ceiling? a wan, anorexic gaze at redder-than-red violas, cheese shaped like yin and yang, magic carpets, lamps, genies and woe. you need roseate duckbilled passion: he clasps the crag. your imagination is a wrinkled sea split: a la vida. the mandrills stare their amber eyes. BLISS ufm OKAPI blue ridge faces shaggy fire beards i don't like taking orders cigarros cigars real puro sometimes i don't understand things because i'm a poet (snakeskin pattern) explicit pink jawing, diarrhea smell i can jolt, i can fang the lopsided automaton within. piltdown: hooooooooors. Relief surged through her: "you did?" I hate authority. blown sounds damaged fever's fancy sour note. tongue-tied prole unmasks the song of fat contempt: tasty morpheme. cheesy baby voice of human resources: "we wouldn't have hired you if you were just a poet." i show my tattoo in the elevator. that's not "corporate culture" "i'm almost an animal" but [torrent of fear] that's just for [gasping] "media I.D." abs, butt -- we all come to need caricature. the mind is asian. cicatrix of condensation... choose your response: thwawk. like the way breasts pop up between the shoulders with bursts of purple and orange light toggling "you were supposed to die" and "passive resignation." "we'll let the dwarves do the tunneling for us -- the bent byronic heroes are at it again." required state of alertness to subjects not of inherent interest: outline of oppression. light clanking in right ear. gruelry. high-spirited anti-rat washing a fall. chick on, finishing kink brilliantly methodically swallowed pride in oil. i don't care how crucifixes win a night bath bolt to freedom, chick on. future begins. the zen of sliders (sensor technology). thus progress had a lobotomy: tune in to bang but lack, out of synch at evidence champion of the whirled dancing to oil, was brave, fat, and his mask face or her small eyes surprised but needed the whale in the room into the pillow breathing softly you will be automatically. you will be automatically. a short, shrink sound. dawdle with me oil men and oily guys. rampant racism seen in weakened storm pansies touting business which i impractically hate oh... and my poverty canopy: lavender rolodex, magenta copy machine, fish earrings, whimsy hobo. check and see the reefer peeled on my back -- reality is unbeatable, repercussing ad memorandum: O time, make concessions. make my worse verse, sneak circuit work. fraud charges out whenever "sincerity" forces me to pretend you're deaf. let's get a cabin in the woods, prehistoric man, and run down hill naked, capes flapping -- . itsa helluva benevolent association: "i just don't feel (flapping) like myself." -- and the parrot eats the air conditioner, skillfully. the glinting -- of the cosmetic mouth, launching the bluebird out of my hair. i make a quiet key in the final minute, i use all available dodos. guitarist hangs off heifer, noise in his wranglers a light aphoristic rose -- beast in broad, sweeping heiro-strokes. i want loopy too even if automatic, the name pulled back to reveal the matted ridges. as the wind blows i try to make myself look decent in the morning of jugular carpet -- am i "free"? her eyes dark and moist fish, she's like a stock option on a tingly prayer. and i guess her love is a button like mine -- one dripped into another and caused a rivulet of relaxed voice. shake out the artificial sand from the artificial crotch: the prayer book's sandy too! and full of permissions -- amateurish gushes over the rocky cloud bank. all i know is it's not flipped-up enough: world-wide (inner) wrestling.
Volume Eleven Index