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DAVID BATES
LUNATIC DOGMA I. dirty word incantation ashes between the keys the bully w/a switchblade comb knocks his knuckles against our bones booze-marrow prayers for the smiling I’ll paint my balls with 151 and pop a match MOLOTOV COCK! knockedup girls getting drunker that one has a husband but he farts and holds her head beneath the sheets he’s too shy to say I love you and that one’s tried candles vacuum cleaner handles the box set of Zeppelin & a microwave oven but still she claims she’s never cum sex is a grave yard any way alms for the bored alms for the bored we’re sunburned children suspended in a soap bubble the inside of our eyelids is sandpaper II. one part bourbon one part urine one part Windex one part bong water one grain of gunpowder in every other pore the bartender is about to light a cigarette (fishing lures for sale on channel 8) she masturbates w/razor blades says it hurts less than a boyfriend he’s a physicist/claims that the right blow at the right velocity at the right angle in the right spot will break a shot glass into perfectly identical little pieces he offers to pack these pieces one at a time into her asshole for her she turns him down and moves away he experiments his theory (smashsmash) until the bartender puts him out she stays a minute very still then leaves casually after him without finishing her drink one part puppy semen one part acne oil one part gutter puddle HOLD IT MISTER the bartender interrupts I’M GOING TO HAVE TO WRITE THIS DOWN III. prevention is the best form of protection DISARM YOUR NEIGHBOR chaos boys— pull your pistols and play the bluezzz guts come from a mean holster a Mr. Blonde complex Annie Oakley hip wiggle gimme a woman who poisons her bullets between her legs who can call the men in from the range for ever orphans of a broken TV/men who’d rather shoot their wives and fuck paper targets than hand over their hand guns machine guns (anything less than semi-automatic smacks of impotence) and when there’s nothing left to put a hole in we’ll make movies about the dirt write poems about frozen Vaseline paint pretty ladies on the soles of our feet and walk around on them until they’re gone worn away and the powder burns tattooed upon each finger will begin to fade beside photographs of dead friends IV. I beg the pardon of the carpet mites but I must lay down and sleep a while I call upon our modern gods: the Roswell Casualties, their craft and Area 51— all faceless men in secret rooms deciding our lives beyond responsibility all agents of the media dispersing their agenda at the sub-atomic level of our consciousness ALLOW ME REST! summer fumes against the window I’m dozing off with a cigarette under the blanket what a way to go too bored to survive 50 miles south of Cleveland waiting for my hair to dry tightening my eyeglasses w/a steak knife I put a hammer thru the TV and a new TV appeared in its place the same strange magic works on me after I’ve stabbed out a lung w/a dull poem or bludgeoned out my teeth on the edge of the bar put ‘em all in an empty bourbon bottle and shook that sick maraca down the aisle daring the beer boys to bring it on and they do every morning there I am every morning V. (4-horse college town) Mac & Cheese boiling in an electric skillet— (the drunks are loud but educated banging on the dumpster in the parking lot begging the moon to throw the 1st punch firing bottle rockets from between their girlfriends’ tits scrounging for some anythang in the back seats of cars an entire row is rOcKiNg tHe sHoCkS: INT. STATION WAGON. NIGHT. cum cunt spit and sweat splattering the windows AX MURDER HUMP HE straddles HER and calls her SILVER thwacks her w/the business end of her tampon she rears back suddenly and throws him through the windshield Midnight wagers against the dawn l u n a t i c d o g m a voices on a shallow breath a swollen mouth devouring itself down to the gums) — they will not be satisfied until I am drawn and quartered VI. flash magic tonic kicking thru the door like hired assassins black jackets flapping the night flanked out behind us our rabid army show of power the room will not survive our visit we’re here for the women the ones run to shreds w/promise bullet w/romeo shrapnel with missing appendages gnawed off during a slow escape (a finger, a foot, a forearm, an entire leg all the way up to the crotch) & they want flowers if only because they’ve never gotten flowers before together we’ll slam that voodoo dance upend tables pitch anything made of glass or boyish charm beat each other w/bar stools until we’re pulp decorating every thing an oath of vengeance has been taken against the tamed against the sane— corporeal oblivion in the name of absolute freedom EMOTIONAL VAUDEVILLE even Death tonight won’t admit he knows us. *** DAVID BATES Currently residing in Austin, TX. Co-founder and Editor of MY FAVORITE BULLET poetry magazine (www.myfavoritebullet.com). Recent chapbooks include PUNCHED THE MOON IT WOULDN'T FALL (2001, Interior Noise Press) and CASHING IN THE DEVIL'S LUCK (2003, Interior Noise Press) |
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