Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Memories of Blue Plastic

prude lamentations fall toward
pink ceramic fang boats which make neat arcs
of sea green poison
which dance on the page
in pin-head drips
all narrative is foolish
in a vacuum
but adored

pink nun fetish
some unnamed tree i saw
growing through scenes of Venetian
armadillo limousine
one witch two doored
how do we communicate then since your fetishes
and mine do not coincide
you fiend for kitten capital
while I stare cross-eyed at a leaf
there are no hairbridges here
there are no woven hair telescopes across the valley of nudes
and none of us marry into collective organisms
our women are not chained to their bowls
and made to grow hair
for finely woven bridges
for collective hair shirt prison telescopes

prudes! prisms!
gun shafts! DODGERS!
fresh oranges! flesh ORANGES!
all of it

as a rasping in lapidary time
by the mouth of a jeweled lamprey
remember all those awful symbolists
members of the teleost order Lophiiformes


They are bony fishes
named for their characteristic
mode of predation, wherein a
fleshy illuminated growth
from the poet's head
the esca or illicium
acts as a lure
like the one found angling
and it is to ANGLISH
we are borne in FRINGE
or SHY KNEES painish
for playsure

What did Jeff Koons mean
when he made those SS busts
of the SUNKING?
son of women?
Nazi Aristrocracy?
fountain of man hair mirrors?

Let your negative imagination run wild!
Let man be your ultimate evil!
A fine evil he is! Sturdy!
Rude! Horrible!
An evil fitting of the ages, of the sages!
and trapped on an infinitely tiny dungball
muttering to himself

because our scale
renders gender

absolutely stupid.

pain makes of all flesh

a mollusc

and strong steel bolts
may fly
from the eye of a fly
into the body of an ogre
made from frogs
like Arcimboldo.

Virus is blind typewriter
and author of cell
Welcome to Hell
It's pleasaunt under the sea
of black forrest.
Heaven, really.

Is creativity duress,
or glandular?

Oil on glass.
and deep under the sea.
O dear god please
worship morality, but keep your whip
from me.

I just stayed on as a species of disorder,
and am rooted by my fungal shafts
to the magnetic core, my psychology
is distorted by an immense magnetic liquid
burning red hot
and set in motion
by juggernaut feet
of mineral insanity.

I do not want though, for I fully expect to suffer and die!
I wouldn't have it any other way. WHY?
and I used my illicium cruelly.. (alas..)

for just sitting all day
typing is enough to break
my matchstick back...
so go on attack.
methinx there WISHERE
woodguff initiative

pink snow igloo
which hides
the little red brain turtle
snoring out
blue plastic