Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Springfield Poems, 08/18/11-08/28/11

In no particular order.

I want
to taste your teeth,
drink your eyes,
drown in your lungs,
dance in your skin,
breathe your hair like smoke,
kneel upon your back like an altar,
wear your feet like a mask,
wear your hands like a noose.


Mill of avarice be damned,
I am not unwanted!
Ground to a pulp,
doth not blessings yet be cursed from compost heaps!
River rolling, my swollen ears float Me
to downstream chests of mud and silver!
The apes cannot fathom why you'd love this man,
where I why I am still still, shining coin in pale hand!
How sick every day to find love,
how torn every day to live!



O sweet tranquilizer, cross-eyed womb,
excuse to hate and be hated,
to do and be done,
kaleidoscoping vomit to forget the day,
staggering pathetic morning still alive,
blessed blood transubstantiate,
words spilled from skinned knees
like ignored arrow through brains.

How the sentence would smart if my gun were sober,
what wake my actions would leave in the pavement
if my hand unwavering swung that axe
with a clear mind
and frightening eyes.


I'm slobbering drunk and hungry
chewing on sunrise
my own two feet my own two feet
drooling truth while you swim in lies.


Shit, how could I forget blonde punk rocker;
we used to neck in purgatory.
"Ah, fuck it" he sighs satisfied,
faces away from everyone
and drinks his drink too fast.


I'm building a hearth,
palace between my ears and behind my eyes,
heavy wooden doors and a moat of blood.

It is my jungle, my lighthouse
my nuclear submarine in a black sea of quiet glass.

You are not welcome,
you will not shatter my tranquility.
You have proven to be anything but a friend.
I refuse to be anything but alone.

I hope to live my life as a thorn in your ankle
and you think of me every time you fall.
I hope to live my life as a bone in your throat
and you think of me every time you choke.



I stink with living
and am a pond brimming
with the frogs of discontent.
Let me show you my arms,
wrap you in lazy scars.
My eyes train towards the heaven of smoke
your beacon is lost in the fog of bleeding.
I have plenty of dry bones
with which to stoke dry fire
and your hair is made of straw.
I am the avatar of kerosene,
dripping disappointing oaths
to a cold curving pink god
one-night-love, this town dead in flame.

I will not stop smoking.
I will turn into a tree
and your spine will lean into mine
and roots will fuck the mud.

Who am I
who is this motherfucker
knowing too much,
saw him to lumber
treated so that his eyes are stain
and his hips fragile be balsa.


Complete solemnity,
paper pulled from golem's ear
is a mixtape track list,
thusly are my feet glued to habits and sighs,
my face is turned and shorn and blossoming
in summer's final death throes as if to affirm
I cannot last forver!
I will flame unto you while I can still muster humble strength.


Doing the Twist in my bedroom,
just me and Nina,
5:23 am,
makes me want to drink more beer.
I'm missing the point
and don't care.


Bricks are red and bed is magic
Trade them for a life less tragic