if you ever buy me flowers make sure theres skulls stuck in em
Vicissitudes and their Apparent Symptoms
lurid blue blavus wrung from blue bruise sprouting golden gleamings
in the beginnings of wing stubs, malignant and seeded
into the flesh, growling gutted, guts. french blue dusk
with its purple tongues. dark licking and drooling
clouds like bosch’s wretched landscapes sublimating into the evil
glittering night, blue lipped night, cat clawed
palm trees struck against the flat lining night,
blue toes, blue lips, white cold gleamings shirking the responsibilities
of speech, and announcing, “THIS IS LIFE!”
“WHY NOT SPEND IT sprawled upon a wine stained rug
with your sperm glazed belly stuck on to it?
vicissitudes; CLEANING TOILETS, unloading trucks, RECORDED GOLDEN
voices, voicing their concerns, whose concerns are audited by ferocious
misery, the complacent evil blavus blue whine like a stained tongue
stuck to the ribcage in the roof of a muted mouth. Ears pinkened
from too much listening, salmonella-yellow ear skin ache.
it stopped making sense a long time ago.”
“THIS IS LIFE. I GUESS.”
THE SWEATER HELD PSYCHOLOGICAL WEIGHT.
it was scratchy. and every time she wore it, somebody would drop
dead or somebody would drop acid and panic.
he unzipped it slowly.
so the zip as it ungnashed its teeth, chaffed
the skin pleasurably. like a cold burn, to which,
in the final seconds, she reacted with a yelp
that gave way to a yawn.
yawn, cloudy as chicken noodle soup, cloudy as
a dawn dawning on a polluted city in january.
sun rising like a burst benedict oozing cold marigold ooze, burst
with a fork whose intent was only pleasure
in the breaking.
his brutish glare punctured in the eyeball
by a well aimed knitting needle. his whole life
fell upon the crux of a moment and the moment was a trope
for the joke of his life and it wasn’t even funny.
was it ever? he was too lazy to know.
ubiquitous leather fantasy dick, or a six inch blade;
his was a knife trick obliterated by a stint with
a machine gun. cold steel day cutting sleep
with its wicked bleak blah. celestial drool called january
called infinite dreary yawn of outer space always swallowing
an undelectable earth given birth to debris of space spittle.
and men on the moon taking steps, always, one at a time.
the apparent symptom was his lack of remorse. so,
to cure himself, he pounded his own face with open palm
and own five fingers but felt only the sting of slapping himself
with hot pink print’s inherent guilt, the reminder of endless
potential in only mediocre endeavors.
the sky swallowed but he was only a small thing devoured
arbitrarily with the rest of the godless creatures.