baby-head machines and things w/ wings

harmony is the key, oh yes

to the universe and musical prolificness

shall we dance? yes

swing like we have pendulums in our asses

gyrate like lovers in bed

spreading our rhythm out like sheets

w/ which to cover the baby-head machines

to protect them from the dust

of broke-down civilizations swirling on the breeze

for dust clogs the works

and the baby-heads must roll

yes, yes like wheels down hills

for they snore and the bumping keeps them awake

but the machine must put them out

like dogs needing to piss

whimpering w/ their tails between their legs

at the closed door where the baby-heads strike

knock, knock

I wish love were made out of plastic

So that it would last forever

Defy all of time

With an infinite amount of possible colours.

When dropped

It would bounce, not break.

By passionate heat

It would melt, then a new shape,

But plastic, all the same.

Left too long in our changing tides

It rounds and becomes dull,

Covered by sand and things.

When dropped

It shatters and cuts, causing pain

Without hope of being made whole again.

I wish love were made out of plastic

Like tupperware

To hold us sealed within it

between medieval walls

where the sun shines straight down or does not shine at all

i like in waiting for i-don’t-know-what.

my mind is emaciated

i long for poetry—

the kind that slips through fingers

falls through cracks to places inaccessible

and is tragic in its loss;

the drink of life is the stream that i pissed in

i can’t drink from it now

my will is deformed

i long for motive—

that propulsion which forces action

a reason to do

and in doing to content myself,

but i wonder if anyone is ever content—

content with who they are, what they have done

because i am not and cannot hope to be

i am broken, and i have only the space between these walls

My clothes, worn by straw, lounged on our porch.

I walked through the woods those months,

When the leaves take the aspect of flowers.

In tents at times,

We lived for the crisp autumn air

That came to us on dry breezes

When the sky was blue and speckled with cotton.

The ladybugs came out,

Turned our white house red,

And the children scattered the leaves I’d just raked.

I knew they’d need raking again.

Mother made pumpkin pie and cookies;

When we bobbed for apples our faces got wet like the rest of us.

We made such a mess,

Father complained that the floorboards would rot.

They did, but much later, and the termites ate more than the water.

Threw pulp and seeds at each other while we carved,

Then lit their brains afire at night.

Eventually winter rolled in through the skeletons of trees

And banished the temperate days.

But we remembered,

Walking on the Fall’s fallen leaves in those long, cold months,

The mother of us all is sitting in the bus depot

Peddling handspun shitty mittens

That get wet too quickly and never hold a prayer of keeping your hands warm.

There are too many holes,

The stitching is not tight enough,

And they sell out of pity

For the mother of us all.

She’s some fallen Mary

Some great virgin gone awry

That lost it to the wrong god

Bore the wrong son

Got the holy spooks from the Ghost

And never quite recovered.

Her mind is no more tightly knit than her mittens,

Of which I bought a pair and my hands are freezing.

I felt sorry for that shattered madonna,

And if my hands are this cold,

There’s this thin little monkey swinging through the trees near my home, screaming

Haiku and hysteria

He says that the bombs are coming and that flowers are pretty

And that all good things come to an end.

Damn that fucking monkey! I hate him!

For his honesty, his brutality, and the obnoxious way that he brachiates in my yard,

leaving peels on all of my walks.

But he has every right to preach.

They say he is Adam’s father and Adam knows the truth of his words as well as I,

i wonder

if in time

my life might confess itself

to me

a sinner to a priest

in likeness

but to this day

i know not its desire with me

i go to school

studying what to what’s end

meanwhile they tear out the back room

my kitten becomes a cat

my friends fall from this world

or mine at least

and i miss it all

a blind archer

shooting an apple

My mind has bubbles in it

My dreams are carbonated

And if you shake me

I will puke

Kiss me enough and you will burp

Put me into your tummy

To relieve your stomach pains

And I will call you mommy

But only if you would like that

Otherwise I would call you Baby

‘Cause Baby, I dig you

Should you be placed in cryogenic slumber for one thousand years?