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
Satans.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment