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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