There is No Lars in This Metal

The Lars of my payee department
Is all out of the bullshit concessions
For the tempered video metal
Everyone’s choking on while the kids
Are in the closet praying to be dissected
From the malignancy growing out
Of their televisions and conjoining
Their heads in a neat column
Of mush consumption, a pulpy
Regenerative credit card you like to see
Swiped through your purchase orifice,
Lars, before you slam a ding dong
Of garbage into their pie shaped
Falsified emoticon receptors. There are no
Remains, Lars, only the broke and fetidcore.

Ninja Crack

Propane Ninja.

Zombie Propane.

Metal Zombies Eat Your Brains.


Propane Ninja Zombie Crack.

The Poisoned Mind

I woke up again and the house was empty. I was on the couch. The house was always empty, abandoned, I only came there to get high. No it was my friend’s house, there were always people and music and girls there, and we all got high together. Except it was empty, no furniture except the couch by the big windows in the front, and all the lights on. They had left me there. No it was the time I woke up with all my clothes on in the bath tub filled to my chin with cold water. They had left me there.

I got onto my feet and they were under me, somehow. I had the right things in my pockets, I hoped I had the right things, the front door was wide open again. My feet and legs worked together. It was cold and dark and I could hear lots of people outside. I could see out of my eyes, except my brain was poisoned behind them. I knew it had sickness in it, but that was okay. If I knew it was poisoned I could think around it and get to somewhere, somewhere else.

There were people everywhere in the cold under the streetlights. They were careening all over the sidewalk, they were laughing and falling into each other. They were falling down in the middle of the street. They were laughing and moaning and they were all dead and they hadn’t noticed me yet, none of them knew me by name. None of them recognized me.

I shoved my hands into my jacket and looked at the sidewalk, I couldn’t let them see my eyes. If I had my sunglasses I could put them on, but that would attract attention. If they could see my eyes, they’d know me. Someone lurched and almost knocked me down. I stared at his feet, he was missing one shoe, I could hear him breathing loudly as he passed behind me. A man was on top of a woman on the hood of a car, her legs were around him, he was devouring her. She was laughing at him as he tore off a piece of her neck. There were hundreds of them shambling around the intersection, the orange from the streetlight, ah god jesus that orange light, that light on their faces.

When I saw the children, I started running, everyone else looked up, I didn’t care. I think they came after me but I didn’t look back.

I felt better in the alley, there were none of them in sight. I hid, stuffed myself between two trashcans. I tried to slow my breathing down, but someone in the trashcan heard me and started to come out. He pushed open the top and I could see his eyes, there was nothing behind them. He came over the top and crawled down on top of me, his mouth was open. He put his mouth, his mouth was on me, my face. He wanted my eyes. I found a brick and smashed his head again and again.

After that I forgot, I went back to the house, I don’t know if I ran or crawled. I had something on me, I thought it was dirt. I was wrong, it was blood. I locked the door and sat on the couch. I couldn’t stop shaking. I got up and went to the kitchen, there were more of them out the back window, but they couldn’t see in. They couldn’t see me. I found my phone on the table, there was a message from my friend: “Hey man, where you at? Let’s throw down!” I wrote back to him, “Please, come find me.”

I woke up in the back of my friends car, the lights were passing by overhead, they were passing quickly. My head was on the lap of a girl and she smiled at me and ran her fingers through my hair. “It’s going to be okay now,” she said.

Flying Dutchman

Wounded to the point of not being heard, diminishing into the horizon.

The house was built on stilts so the sea could wash under it. We could be carried away in our Ophelial delusions should the need arise.

Consider the north-easter blowing through the open bus window, cool and singular on the seat beside you. Consider the foam wash blown over dunes, the lone figure and his dog in the distance. The body tumbling in the shorebreak, that came ashore as a great turtle split in half.
Consider pipers hunkering through December.

This passed for home, this was pivotal, this was cold sand blown over an adolesence.

Propane Leak Maybe

You Smell Gas?

Maintain-o-saur

Which gravitates through under snares
And clinks glutinous and feathery to your shoe

And some shoes! Getaload O stool farmer

Yes.

Because he has no cheeks
Gas blooms the sidereal and later
A strip of bacon beamed through memory
To your loose crosshatch,

That’s right, the squint eye recess
The give-n-go hand fan

Links every overboard to a function of choice
Sheer luminous presentation
Of the youcanhaveit gleam,

The I’d-rather-be submission hold
To your cantankerous SBD charms.

Ricmond IOP

Affirmations of Some Basic Rights

Nobody has the right to know my mind or my buisiness or to tell me what to think, what to feel, or what to do.
I have a right to my own thoughts, feelings, values and beliefs.
What I share with others about matters that concern me is determined by what feels right to me, not what they want.
If people are abusive or disrespectful to me, I have a right to tell them so, to ask them to stop and to avoid them.
I don't have to be nice to people who aren't nice to me.
I don't need abuse or to be disrespected.
I have a need and right to love myself, respect myself and to stand up for myself.
I alwas have a right to express what I feel and think for myself, as long as I don't try to tell others what's right for them.
I have a right to be who I am and to harmlessly live my own life regardless of whether others don't like it.
I don't have to feel guilty for not behaving as others might want me to or for not giving others what they expect from me.
I accept myself just as I am in the moment with whatever thoughts and feelings I have.
I accept my right to make mistakes-otherwise I couldn't learn and grow.
I accept my right to my imperfection and shortcomings and don't feel guilty for not being perfect.
I believe we should do unto others as we would have them do unto us- to be treated with love and respect.
I believe that if I am tru to myself and live by the highest truth I know that things will turn out for the best in the long run.

Richmond Vs. Tallahassee

Or else what, you'll take my number off your phone again? I don't believe you, I don't wana talk about Han(g)over street, I don't wanna fight (or maybe I do.) Did I mention the Starbucks across the street? Did I mention they tore down every Stuffy's in the city limits? Did I metion the monsters are all afraid of us now? It's incredible, you hold up your kid and they run away. We're fortified. We're winning back our town. Read your big book: history is vapor and tomorrow is a train rail that will always hum if you hold your ear to it. All we gotta do next is blow up Buddy's.

Metal Vs. Not-Metal

1.





lovely









2.
oh dear jesus.




*********

Canto The Tubing

________________________________________________










Things in jars collecting wounds
Are nice to talk to often.

Some trailing winds of white insecticide
Offer cab fare, bloody decent

Or narwhaled up inside, you might
Consider the bounty of spoiled ham

Incarcerated delight like a knife
In a light switch.

That’s not code either.

Or, if you ask, the Shiksa plate
Comes with a side of pre-ringed intestine

And guilt like mm, mm, mm some
Body stuck a whole fist in an

Twist it, twist it, twirly bird. If you
Asked. That’d be the best way.

That or the tube.












________________________________________________

City, Morning 2

Thousands of bricks, stacked upright, marching down the alley behind Stuart. Cigarettes littering. Beginning here, where the zombies came from.
This is the Zombie headwater, clear-eyed and keen. This is our city.
Come home.

City, Morning

Before the fruit ground to pulp, to reveal what it has inside, there is the shower to soak my soreness. With the water running through the hair on my chest. Rivultets like a creek. Water over the fungus blossoming on my back that I'm nurturing, plaster grit in my hair, whatever else I'm carrying from yesterday. Little life shed, begone. Washed away and under the city. We invite water into our homes and it carries us away. Running in darkness, running fast and clear, with it's own mold blossoming. Billowing under current, passing over bricks, eddying red and green.

Interrogations 0.1

________________________________________________________





List.

As in lean through to falling
As in coordinated flailings



Concession.

As in retread pasture, dreams
As in dynamic concrete pourings



Floatation.

As in upheavals, denials, status of wings agreements
As in temp jobs wearing spikes, slippings




Defer.

As in righteous boundaries, barbed in uncoiled coke cans
As in magnanimity unbound, deteriorations




Trance.

As in pianissimo on the gong, triad killings
As in loose puddles of certainty.








__________________________________________________________

Construction Crane

_____________________________________________



The submerged antipathy pops up
For a gulp with its spine-lung

So it keeps the kettle going for privacy’s sake
For the collected sludge boiled down to

I’m hopeful but the overstatement is also
Pathetic, thus the vegetation

Imagines harmonies of illusion and whatever
I’m still just fidgeting, fidget, fidget

Whittling back bones out of crusted
Milk gobs. Looks like a stick maybe,

Brush off the ants and lets have a see
What’s buried init.

Crisp vacancies, some
Looming hope out. One edge sparkles

Under there, slick like fish bulge.






.

A Number 1

God lives in your feet.


Keep them moving.

The Limitation

The species forages for its exit.
The space inhabited is defeat.

What making leads to nowhere
The species is stunned by non vastness.

The space for god to inhabit
Resounds through this chair,

This very limited chair. The sun
Is at its disposal. Everyone is

A monument, complete with headphone
Walking tour narrated by

Harry Dean Stanton. One voice
For the mass of marble we make of

Beginning, middle and end:
All around us, praise the Limitation.

And So Perilous

Yet cozy and flexed
Or is that my kitchen window
Stretching her new found view effects?

The house now, makes snow
Or heaves a humid afternoon, this is all grand.
Ain’t we all Performateers?

In the floorboards now a little water
From the storm, now a little ocean
With sea women, sea teeth, an ambience of drowning.

Now to so comfy, the particulars are dispersing
Some toad evolution to the movie-plex,
The fist piecing together a glancing

At your fixed leg, at the tree you stake to;
Some ambulating variable gaining strength by use.

Day of Wonder

What is this burning in my eyes?





*******

Rabbit Tobacco

We determined the need and then constructed great buildings of sleep. We allowed for some settling. We fortified against any of those challenges, the unexpired ones, that startle you cresting the horizon. We built and contemplated that our lives were not of our own making and thus, had become free.
The nutbrown of our surroundings became a template for all we might do. We incorperated the arch of the river willow into the idea that we might fail. The image of failure became the forms for our enclosure, the hideous idea that we might be consumed by our own imagination. We determined we had become insane.
We accepted that our frailties would be interwoven into anything we might accomplish. The patina of authenticity, we called it, and applied it to the surface with a pair of trowels. We decided that to in order consider the project a success, we need never wake up. Our structures would stand for thousands of years without us.

Route 33

There are all kinds. There are those smoking asphaults out there, they are breathing under you, you are moving so fast, you are hovering over over them. Turning. Elemental. There are those ghost roads in North Carolina, who curve under woods, they are travelled by no-one. They all have their roots. Our mountains, our roads. Turning. Absent. Ever turning you are there.

Tennessee Plates

Wintersleep-Jaws of Life

Hold me like a child

In your warm, warm arms

Whisper parables

Keep me safe from harm


Oh my sagging skin

Oh my burning skies

I will close my eyes

I will close my eyes


There was laughter once

There were pretty songs

Pull the metal shards

Thin my clotted blood


Oh my rotted skin

Oh my burning skies

I will close my eyes

I will close my eyes


Oh the jaws of life (x3)

Bivalve

Horned Doom metal, the treader who
Bows steak-ward metal like circumference.

Hedge metal to the toad, peeping to your garbage.

Garbage metal like the dream, all
Wound down, to spires and mold stretches.

Gleam metal, like the hair in the sink.

Roach metal who promenades through crumbles
The leaning heart metal who chimes

Gravity wide, the crunch metal, vertebrate
Dangle metal, loose baggie metal

Some over the face metal, some caved in metal,
Shank metal and bereaved grind scorn metal

Tied up in burlap metal, the shaded avenue metal
Who feeds in the wreckage, the sucking metal.





.

Cool Your Blood

I'm waiting for something to collapse this august summer of bees and wasps. Take away the meanness of eggs every morning for thirty one days. The meanness of scrapple. No more hot wind blowing off the interstate through the rolled down window, no more hospitals, no more stitches. Cold winds blow and freeze the swarming flies swarming my potato salad, cool the red from my son's face, take the wasps worrying him from every back yard. Take the wasps take the hornets take the flies. Take the flies.

sea beast

Erroneous Calamity

Juice Tokens heaved to the pond
And the guy in scrubs up to his knee in broom spit

Grumbles some more and more snakes
Ooze into the T.V. memory

Indie! I am the monarch of the sea
The level of the grand pincer groomed

Even to steam up anyone on the block
Headed to shower and easy street

Catch these in the net, abandon.
They slip right next time through

All them gosh its great to yous

Hearty chunks in the wire, phoning
Next season, I promise, we get

A little throw you out, squeezed pulp genius.

I am Ahab.

DisJunk

Zombie pulp and cash flow enmesh
Their descriptions, drive new cars

Into the ditch trying the ramp
Over the razor wire, wire dogs

Mash computer files of dream sequence
Gone sour, aphasiac like the noose borne

Shiver me chiggers, me skin’s loose up
Not sad about it, just not altogether

Neither, there in that suppository dark
Peeping tracheal for melancholics

Who there trips out ship chop bloody
After blocks, party hammocks

Giftwrap coke machines dream stink
Swipe patterns on green, splatters.

Discuse

Pointed like nails
North heads into the kitchen

Folds a chair into the soup rations
Between hard stomachs.

And veils on the ice
Stacked water crumble into housing

Most anyone can notice.

You brain, intense refusals or scraped
Dimes, are treatment

Curtailed to faucet candies, destroyed
Moonstrosity,
Lousy hoverer!

Illuminate the benches
my knees are chaffed to

Glue in some brain cankers
Every thousand feet.

Medications

safe and sorry

Spanner

If it could rend open this metal, if it could make its way to Brazil. It was the element I couldn't remember its name, I called it a spanner just to have something. It dipped into each flower, I ran it wide open to Midlothian. Everything felt tight, the whole thing sounded compressed. It was the compression, it migrated, it felt like it might flip at a high rate of speed and be reduced to a sum of it's components. I thought I might be trapped inside it. There was no reduction, it moved too fast to see the wings move, it was graceful and small and terrifying. I felt it bleed inside me. I felt the river under the bridge, I felt the space under my truck, I felt it going by rapidly, I felt terrified. In this way I spanned the bridge.

Hummingbird Moth

There's something coming down the rails, something coming, I won't be able to outrun it. I won't be running, I'll always be running, over the river. I thought the running would restore me to sanity, I thought the running would restore me. The river would return me, my body, down the river to the sea. The river running by the city, the river running, the water under me. I thought the city would return, the city restored to sanity, the city rising and I'm running beneath it, running down the river, running down the river.

Jaws Of Life

wintersleep

Promalade

Spreader and enriched
Gourmet memorables

And harsh reams of dining experience

Called out to sea, to squalor
All the smooth instability

And treading water, panting
The whole dream on a dance

Slot to go round, Vibratron
Steam mistress

Hullabaloo and an ice bucket
For the melting swimmers

Ice age man in fedora
Unearthed to classic steps

What carnage at the buffet.

Glass Carpet

On the weave we pray
Every bonnet gets treasured

And so the loom gets her dignity
In the up and up away from hands

On the cover up
We leave the stains

For the next residents to unearth
Like proof of the cosmic joke.

On the walls, maybe some paint
Or ships-in-flight wallpaper

Will get a Granny to commence
Excavating her specials

And sparkle demons dragged
From the 30’s or on a vessel

Bound for the church of a far land.
We know its fake, Granny,

Give it up. Lets get the crunch
Crunch out of the way.

Here's Your Explanation:

None of us get what we want and then we die.

Consider the Ruckus

And the possibilty of punkrock made into a machine.
Consider the simmering room, the thousands of red lines
Representing roads in Virginia. Consider the roads
Of Richmond. Consider punk rock.

Everything representational, Everything that returns.

Bring the ruckus.

What Time & How Burnt

Probot is metal. Probot is not metal enough.
Not enough to wake the babies, to grind the strawberries
To make the smoothie. It is nothing to relapse over.
Trigger me this: If metal is not necessary, then neither
Is breathing, and Lamb Of God needs to quit the tour
And come home.

Zombie Country Pulpit

Wearing number three with ribs
mm-mm
some falls off some gets got

looky looky numbers collected
to the Cinnabon
for the toll taker’s left overs

some soft serve soft bits
gets the puddlings, some slip

from the hilltops surround the mall

and busted open atrium
thin rain fizzles to stem up the odors

hail thee prince of pride, hail down
some froze rocks and tonka-tonk

some loppers tumble to gaps glacial
closers,
give us this glip our daily sludge

we mumble into halves
get some big ole hats

just for being here for the very last one,
bath and body works
ironies alone
near Perfumania which tickles
atmospheres around the wandering
limb chawers,
spit slips out now
no reason to be offended

no more a deceiver, we’re home lord
Anne Taylor, Lord and Taylor

Six feet up, escalators still tearing

Welcome the pulp to the pulpit.

Belligerence

Triangles inseminate their own dark
Cuticles.

Slipshod demons sterilize
Some crepuscular dogs
Who found their way through to
Gnawing the rusty girders,

Enfenced, scoops of glisteny mud

Languished broken razor blades
Congress

Greater forms decline
To join the community of crank

Batons beaten upon the skull
Of deformed democracies
Clinging amoebic

To the hands, to the
Oppressor’s dream cranks as they
Trawl the crinkling
Stomachs, the stomachs.

MastoPelagic

Still normal or Norwegian

Some wet light beams through town

Wet fishing the streets or corroding

The bank face and street mood

With cold, wet ship light, what is after

The radio and disasters of weather

What stings through line-of-sight

And whale sounds jaw loading

Dark shapes from ripple beams.

Saskatchewan brims landed

Solidarity in grass shelves, girds

Not fear of slipping, falling into

What is the water, sufferable held breath,

Not city shaped, sewer of burning lung.

June 24, 2006

"Now then, thought I, unconciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost."

--Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Old Betrayal Mountain Road

Into Hot Springs, everything leads to Hot Springs.
Away from anywhere, Tennessee, that road stalked by ghosts.
The Confederacy of Suffering. Prisoners forever of history.
You can find me hidden in a holler in between.

Fang Bastard

Squeezing the Tubes


Beyond the Cave of the Fang Bastard


Wrong in the head


Or just fucked


Squeeze the well, toe stubber


Your rage feels furry too


The Fang FANG bastard


Revel in the tubes to machine


Mind a way out of this beef stride of impotence


Think of little Bruce Dickenson


In his SaXon fur bikini


Belting badland badassed despite ridiculous nakedness


Squeeze the Fang Bastard


Into the cave

The Envelope of Hornets

Which shelf bubbles up skin
The sketched out mothers huddle
On the dive dock moored too out
In the current, they give thanks.

Fish and alligators mimic indifferent
Habits, buy some hotdogs and gaze
Off at the Spanish moss and cypress
Kneels. Meanwhile the hornets

Collect the beach, the sand and gift
Shop. The spring burps up another
Set of mastodon bones, a million

Years set adrift and still a current
Of fear makes its way to the surface,
Finds a crowd to press into the corner.

Cruelty

When I relapse, it'll be straight into a pine box.
They can say He did it to drown the jagged thing
In his belly, That which made him hurt. You and me.
That way I can be ahead of the game.
When the Radiation Cloud calls us to Rise Again,
I won't have to run away. It'll just be a matter
Of clawing to the surface. Released from the weight
Of feeling anything except want.

Negate

Another black chapter, words crossed out
Whole sentences, ragged, the pages fluttering
In a harsh wind. There is no way to make this better
There is no other way than to pass straight through.

Goat Song

And revised to wit
Like the bombshell or afterward
In the tabloids
Pills each inference tangos to
Ordained the ever rafters
Diminished, canticle organization
Resist the smooth juncture’s fetish:
Farm-rooted to the bleary contest.

Absolve oh detangler, absolve
The mesh nylons, the fast fact
Of continence, obey

Lurch church custodian of the watermark

Hang two corsets in the lumberyard
Next to a knotted dream
Carpathian wheat grinders in stockinged
Resistance stand up and goat dance
The Metal finger flags delivered
To skewer, prancing daggers of impotent rage.

One nimrod squanders the fringed
Leather jacket on warm afternoons
To loungey spring-like for hard looks and metal
Accessories, soon the skull rings and cross necklace
Give over to a crack in the car seat
Floor mats of obscured treasure

Excess in the soft core, the switch of hair
For music the concession of mind

To will, to wit, read about it
One farm raised length of angry resistance
Three chords heavy, some drums.

The House of Poetry Slated for Demolition.

28 days later Sandra Bullock gets
Consumed by zombies and not in the nice way.
31 days later Baby May has Toofers
And She Bites.

Rodney the third shift C.A. for our floor
Told me last night that God is in your feet:
Keep them moving.

Rehab Poem Attributed to Todd S.

This alone is what I wish for you: knowledge
to understand each desire has an edge
to know we are responsible for the lives
we change. No faith comes without cost.
No one believes without dying
now for the first time
I see clearly the trail you planted
what ground opened to waste
though you dreamed a wealth
of flowers.

There are no curses-only mirrors
held up to the souls of gods and mortals
and so I give up this fate, too
Believe in yourself,
go ahead, see where it gets you.

Rita Dove, Demeter's Prayer to Hades

goddamit that's annoying.

Simplemental

Suppose imminent suppository




















Candle to fabric exact exquisite





















Composition detaxed from fashion






















Shoe storm quake to the ubertide





















Comminatchya whachitnow























Bend over waxcakes we got your





















Remedies in a ball wax and rubber banded























To disband the group’s grippy edge























On the whole caboodle, wax myrtle






















Whole tide in a tiny bullet shaped suppository























Hold um up, stretch it open and smile






















Wide like a turnpike























Scalpel insertion this time temple dream



























You got your heart on. It’s a bleeder.































.

On Radar

Prance your royal























Pain in the













Nefertiti pie





















So squelch – there it is again



















Sasquatch



















Turd.




















Bleach Bonnet





















Her moral tax





















Skews the seesaw





















Bonnet –there it is again


















Prance your royal























Bounce monger




















Destabilize the pile – there it is





















Your kindred knipes






















Mushroom handsome
























Wallet – there it is again























Bounder, blurred blonesom drub




















Third bonnet



















In the punch bowl



















There it is

















The wax coat



















The punch in the ribs.

Eschatological

A mounded wooden heart
Carries more cargo than a man’s intestine

No one disputes this, but
The agency of manners sends forms
To all the employees and their information
Levels, ordained by blue haired women
Crouching over tea sets
And television data sheets

Mark dark exes next to the matter
Which is substantial
And red smiley faces next to that
Which has virtue but no form.

Tempers flair in the bulwark section
Of the local ship works.

Reductive Shrine

Or sallow in this light your bonnet
Hovers teaming with special forces

Rope down ladder sophist, head on
Train rail, bob like a nail

Bomb the front style with hearing
To Doric convention, the high bonnet

To shred up, to layered reduction
In the pot, plastic consumptive

To her opiate virtues. What
Makes us sleep, how we cry to defeat

The bad ones, feeling like whispers
To retch from, to screen from

The orders to demean, to prop up
Coronate, be-haloed candle operation.

Squash Bonnet

Reach down valley, around
To something, new shelving

Ignore the candles and knives
For children, for disaster relief

Hello, hello, your pills are ready
Is there anyone left to take these?

What do hear in the echo back
But teeth filling in for captivity

The sun in a sluice of dry rot
Somewhere near the leaf line

So rock climb to a rehearsal diner
Get fitted for star sighting

Get it down for me, ok, my hands
Are shaking, draw bridge to the show.

SUBterranea

subterranea

As they investigate
So enormously, we dredge
Facile, fact-bombs, hope-bombs
Prehensile projects of the tonsil
Unearthed lounges

Lozenge to the tripe, trip
In stone leading half and half
To Subterranea
The destination of a clod
Of bones, the sample decay
Threaded through with
The off-road tread
Which nightly deranges a housefire
With gowns of sound clawing
To consciousness the wet earth
Her scarlet intention

The names withdrawing to canvass
On tombstone, the all-terrain
Scramble of some time-balls;
In with the oils, gray-green
Like candy in a dead rat’s mouth
On the highway, you pestilent
Exterminator, how long do
The carcasses make circus
Statues? How long do they remain
Soft Sundays in the hot-hot
Tabernacle

Heavy migrant
Foot beats through the mitigated
Darkness
Shamble my prayer box
Into splints for broken bones
Broken dream stems and bicycle
Accidents
Trauma like a toad, like a dream
Of a toad, the gentle bump
In the high far off
Caressing the highway
To accident.

Neufchatel Hopes

The scalpel sees its ancestry

In the hanging plastic casement
Where dog’s put their ribs out

To restraint.

Scatter my ashes on a lovely salad

Which costs an entire family reunion

I am cold, I am cold, telegrams the scalpel

Spending time on my habits

What the common folk worry about

T-shirts eating their children
Postering them like an invasive species

With opinions.

I Smell A Winner

Yet blurred, buried like knives
In hatchet ground, mistake:
Cued out

Blanket stain
If you know the name of monarch
Please press one.

Yet stirred the bowl primordial
Stalwart rubber knife
In the back.
You tried, I felt it like unhinging in
A dream, the fryer still on
Somewhere in the dark:
We all hold our hands
Away from the counter tops

Stainless.
Yet high the hats surmount
Yet blaze order from magazines:
Stumps of soup, ingredients
Shaved off
The finger, a carrot maker,
Juicer-exploder

Or better yet
Confuse me some more with a map
A phone head,
Set to jaw.

If you know the name of the crime
Being committed, press one

Check out this knife:
Chewy, My favorite.

There’s all here.

Steak Knuckles

Another reason for the military
To bomb the civilian order

Eyes
The sought for
Head

Shares the tomb with my concentration.

What few economic meat-hooks.
So many went wrong to the tender eye

The brilliant engines
Planting their own careers
Into the surgical opening

Phamrcon breaths out from
The chips in my head

Or fuel celled urging
Me to bloody a wall with frustrated

Steak. My page telling on me,
My rage a sharp rock beckoning.

Blah blah, god. Merciful incoherence
Blah blah infinite
The heads rolled out
Perched on marching boots.

Armies of the Undead