It's NOT that this is a SHIT world...

I think the days of lovingly napping on blue-red foam,
     or crouching in the zen leg-cross pose,
     cooling my brow with the lush beach - breeze
              of warm self-pity
     might be long-gone, a lost song.
No more "raven-haired" beauties duly hallucinated
     or more so recarved in pen in
     the likeness of love
        or loveness of liking
           lovely lightness
           constructs of tv people
           or girls in school
      I never
        (or particularly cared for)
      and duly torn down to vulture picked
      maggot farms
            skeletal parasite effigies
            crumbling idols with fantastically grotesque imagery
            (that the very essence of decay could never express)
             in the same page.
its clear to me that this whole concept is drowning in bullshit.
             somebody always manages to come along and blow me
                   when im a tea-kettle hot
                        pile steaming
                          vice grip tight
                            SKULL SHI
                              P NAK UN...!
                          and i really need it
             and to cuddle with me in puddles of fluffy
             pillow puppy snuggly cloud flowery hummmmmm
             when i feel like being a pussy.
Where is the poetry in this shit world? Its in the poetry, not the shit

Fine Wine, Two Dimes, and The Best Times

Papyrus pries primrose pattern
         exploding blue and white-blue
a lightshow lapelle on the left breast of the best guest
leering and licking up the luxury
fine wine, two dimes, and the best times
or moonshine in the beerstein
but a sleazy tease
         touch and go
         with breezy ease
A girl, a gift
     a grand, a tip
        two birds in hand
            two lame
        cliches, appraised.
An enziguiri
      through the coffee table or a quick fuck underneath
is twice as nice as the ticket price
and more rare indeed and barely seen
my spa glasses read nudity outside her chemise
and her form and function
      make a fine
          headbutt of his mandlebrot
          or candlestick of his spaghetti noodle
          or some such puerilism
        the sparrow, the shrew
the scandalous few
the sneering lieutenant makes time for his troops

A Long Route Home to Earth

Theres a tired old cliche...
        with leather or lace or rayon or silk or nylon
        or tweed or lycra or hemp or denim or cotton
    with vomit and rotten
        or pissing on sidewalks
                    on drugs or on couches
        and shiny neon lights grabbing attention
        of people grabbing at attention
        of people grabbing at neon lights
    and money spending itself
        and liquor taking a long route home to the earth
                through aesophagus and lower intestine and kidney,
    and cars that age like hummingbirds
                sucking at cobras tails
                who eat bubonic rats and lice for snacks
    turpid turkish entrepreneurs snaking dime over dollar
        for lime disease and cholera
    courts of corks and taps and pork and fat and talk and chat
                    and whores and dads and scores of fads and
    whiny whiny white incessant brats
    who never live there
    but love to visit
...that becomes me.

2004 Underground Voices