"interceptors" poems
Mondays in Van Nuys:
velvet morning, bee stings,
and medicating angels
wrapped in mesh,
at the scene of a fugitive motel,
swimming towards
*** and misery.
Nicotine lizard
fresh from film school,
and his molten young
interceptors
with corduroy legs,
scouting for girls
any way, shape, or form,
pinpointing them
in alphabetical order.
Flashing red light means go:
pretty Eve in the tub,
lit from underneath,
she sun shines,
her back to the prehension
from a survey of hands
and power tools.
No tan lines,
the boundaries of
this celluloid garden
begin at her knees
--a fleshprint,
start the Van de Graaff
and watch as she reels
the far faded whispers
of carnal quicksand.
A smell of peroxide and sweat,
her constant freezing
and thawing
totally crushed out,
the dark don't hide it.
Candy Bar
--it's not her real name,
but she smiles like
she means it,
lying is the most fun a girl
can have without taking
her clothes off.
Once again
the week gets lost in repeat:
a certain smile,
a certain sadness,
look on the bright side,
this isn't happiness.
Oct 10, 2022
Oct 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related
*Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
- the Toe-cutter*
You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, **** yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
White Interceptors illuminate, cry, and leave ribbons of red and blue,
accelerating north on Featherbed. Streetlamps hang like midnight ornaments.
It starts to rain, turning the tar streets into slick mirrors.
I can see my lights lead me, sweeping the asphalt.
Kent is still too dangerous to gentrify. The trashcans are spilling
cereal boxes and empty two liters. I imagine a two-thousand year-old
mountain of trash, corroding and forming this neighborhood.
Barefoot children walk around aluminum cakes, reaching for the rain.
Skinny cats trot across the street, green and yellow eyes,
leaking through the dark. I name them after sicknesses.
The humming of my Camry grows louder as I squeeze by
dripping, patting hands. I now recognize the moon.
Buildings swoosh by faster and faster. Minutes go by and I
find myself on the outskirts; the trees sway, dodging rain.
My phone rings like a frenzied roach. Picking it up,
'Hello.'
'Sure. Yeah, I'll be right there.
'Nowhere.
'I'm going nowhere.'
The phone bounces on the grey seat. A screeching.
Coming to a stop; my chest almost touching the center
of the steering wheel. All becomes still.
A buck with velvet antlers stands in the rain.
It runs into the dancing forest. Much like me.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC
Night interceptors, leave my dreams alone.
Your scissors cut along these dotted lies.
You’ll never see me crashing down her boulevard
as I watch him break her untamed heart.
Youth beneath wrinkles still make her alive.
Make the last call and toast my final bow.
She’ll bury me deep beside our fairy tale
while I push up daisies as farewell.
To be continued…
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
The have ability harbor
to inner **** up, up
plastic cleaning bags
interceptors, styrofoam
trash containers, hydro-
powered cigarette, and
butts. Solar and the
other wheel, debris, trash.
The professor waste and
is wheel burned trash
to Mr.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC