Wednesday, October 24, 2007


Here is the screen name you mustn’t touch,

But you may feel the delay coming upon the box

Of being you writhe in. Also, the lord cometh:

No Me Tokes. Hear the heralds grind-core,

The Styrofoam goat’s head and black robes,

The gilded corners of the pentagram, a blank

Screen, then tile backgrounds of Satans upon


If you recall how vinyl captured these

Band logos in hexagonal blood letters, then

Your shape is a waxy cloth breeze-torn

Across a chain link fence. You are the band

Member wannabe in forlorn leathers beyond

The backstage doors. What I mean of course

Is that it is me. So my website is a rubbing

On wax, porno disclaimers and keep-hiddens

Behind the screen names. Bloody, bloody sticks.

So Christ, fresh back from the concert

Says don’t touch my merchandise, fried foods

Of the mind Cholesteroling the soul, merchandise

Eyes. And you do not know why I put a cheesy

Studded wrist band to the air? It is a denial

In pure form of my stumpy mentality, an

Un-resurrect-able personality vaingloriously

Endowed with a perverted self denial.

Troll, the hog brain in underwear roaming

Bayou and beer-hall Fen hoping for the chance

To show off my computer boner, the throng

Of god hammer that must never be touched,

But that might be found in mood, in the mood,

In the mood. And still, the lord manages to

To come up for air and go back down, back down

In to the spiritual sixty nine, times nine,

The six and the six and the inverted vertebrate

The filthy, filthy screen name you must never touch.

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