she once said, ‘ life is ****, deal with me!’
well no... she just said life is ****...
i liked me,
now i sit by the boiling kettle
and i’m singing out a song that
sounds less like crow, even crow sounds like
the ultimate pathology, the ultimate north...
higher and more remote from oslo that iceland
and the denmark colony...
she’s singing hello via the **** fat *****...
goodbye will be given the arithmetic a b c
when she’s 31...
testifying to train-spotting so she looks cool
but isn’t... goodbye from platform five...
i must have checked my g.p.s. for vanilla a budding first...
women are too expensive... keep cats / dogs...
better eyes... oh look here comes the soviet army
ready to beat me... then the talk of schengen was
just impregnated lamb lore of the foetus you ***** me into having,
thank you, thank you dianna thank you charles
and thank you the paparazzi... **** the harrod’s boy;
all i really want is the don quixote windmill of slo mo
of the close up airy of the hair...
i want to chase mirrors... i really do...
i want to chase them into sleep patterns
that gave you a roof, or might have had you given me the chance...
forget the marriage of buttonman buttnoning up a jacket
into perfection for batman...
batman took to encourage the october solistice and harmed
the elbow on the hour hand of the clock...
i’m **** smear bare all over the honey with you...
i’m melting like your father with his economic creases
about to remember vulture snooker... which didn’t work...
took the safetynet with him, reminded himself
of the thing called a ****** he married detached from mother
denoting daughter...
you are ready for feminism, are you ready for intellectual sexism?
i think you are...
otherwise you wouldn’t be so militant in islam...
which i invoke france with to censor you...
yeah i survived... i wish i didn’t...
i care less for the drama that ensues in you avoidance of justice...
it’s just so pathetic... i think death is less pathetic...
and i wish for death, the less pathetic of the two pathologies,
to smooch me quicker as a medicine,
i just want to disengage with this pathetic engagement with life
that brings me no closer to life
but closer to those dead and lying while with a working
tender worm oesaphagus... i rather be dead than
alive and engaged with your lies.*

the other ***** said her father had morals and didn’t
sell her as a child on screen...
he ****** my guitar up that i didn’t pay for but had
to concede on having with installments...
he sold the child... daddy **** luck was almost rich with
the investment she lied about when she said
that he: didn’t take the money and run!
he ran...
and if you’re still enlisted in the camp that said:
free art!
but not in the camp:
free bread & wine!
you must be the one gratified by really **** poetry
and stale bread that never came / and vinegar that
you wouldn’t salad-crunch with.
*****: sigh elsewhere,
i'll my mp3 the cultural output with the hamster farmers -
there's no part of you that said credo in symphony no. 9
but not owl... there's no part of you that said:
i carved the falcon crescendo of the edenic fall
for freelance
akin to the cheap **** of pop in the dyed age of replicas
for early blonde dye - can i ask you, why free art?
why free art and the contradiction of sustained
charity... art is charity? really?!
i thought the original impetus to art
is governed by sustaining the gut and the brain...
but i guess my generation just took to carrier pigeons
speeding to nowhere on empty stomachs...
well... free bread & wine & whine still resonates
better than pop songs as free as pigeon coos
or dog barks.