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  Apr 13 zebra
taylor styles
you told me i was pretty,
but you said i looked prettier on my knees.
zebra Apr 6
when i was little
i fell in love with the movies
the music
that resonated like waves
through my little seven year old body  as the stars of the silver screen
sang sambaed and shimmied

i was in love with tanned blond blue-eyed smooth skinned twinkly toed Doris Day
my head in the gutter even at seven

i obsessed about her going to the bathroom
what would that be like i wondered
maybe blintzes with sour cream 
maybe melty butter pinky bubble gum toilet lollies
or multi colored fruit shaped jellies with cellophane wrapped chocolate parfaits
or even peanut popcorn and crackerjacks with a surprise inside
that smelled of  lilacs or cute little furry animals that would plop and fizz out of her **** like tiny Ziegfeld dancers 
in a theatrical extravaganza of glistening **** tarts back stroking
humming tunes from the Mickey Mouse Club
M-I- C- see you real soon
Y- because we like you
back in the day i wanted to marry Doris Day
but in time grew bitter that she never called
or came to visit
so i could tell her special secrets
about my most ardent foot kissing worship
**** rub ritual
play doctor, take her temperature  
and give her a shot 
that would make her do
what ever i say

while it's not easy being seven
and Doris is quite dead
i really haven't changed that much

puppy ***** go
zebra Apr 6
there's a  fire in this madhouse of Venus
where unattainable romance gives birth
to cunty darkness and pleading clawish fingers
to obsessions of strange mental constructs
something about blood and tears
birthing black ******* and vampires
with vermillion mouths shaped in circles
that gorge themselves
on violent thrusting *****
and ***** resembling mushed faced pugs
just asking for it

a woman's eyes burn like cigarettes
and tongues snake into esophageal
swoon revivals of glorious deliverance
flashing souls flit like street lights
and flames of wraith hair
she begs to be strangled with a black chord
and kissed till her brain blurs fizz

she dances her *****'s
wigwam wiggle and clutches
like a sliding oyster
and licks my *******
**** ***** and ruby ***** 
gagging repeatedly onto the hilting root  
falling into submission
for her dark ******* god Faustian thing
a little doll with mythic eyes 
a ******* wraparound mouthy wigged ***** 
with a baloney-pony disco stick orifice

will you **** me with your **** sir
a dark hunger gnaws deep within
so bleed me merciless
like a gushing artery
make me red dead in love in bed
butter **** and properly spread
pound me like a hell ***** ****** 
in a burning five alarm 
emergency suicide ****
i corkscrew her 
into a writhing
murderous tintinnabulating wreckage 
as she dissolves under me 
like a sugar cube in hot tea
christened by a magic wand
that forces her round belly 
up and down like a toilet plunger

her ***** drools like runny yolks
a deep homework 
the shamanic decent 
an illusive weighing of the heart 
the sweet meat priestess 
who resuscitates abandoned legends
making my ***** click like castanets 
a Mr. Winkey party
spewing Icelandic yogurt
her teeth rattle
as her brains and one eyeball 
hang off my **** 
like pig trough slobber
her face smiles 
and vomits peaches

there's a moon shining 
in your beautiful hair
my darling

God save the kink
zebra Apr 1
i embrace the monsters of imagination
even the barbed wire of tortured images
through blizzards and blackouts
imprisoned in the skin 
stuck in a time space package
where all poems of truth 
are a heresy to a culture of gimmicks
into the inferno of matter
honeycombs of hell
where ignorance is the most dominant religion
unable to recover the pearl of immortality
we look into a mirror of our mind
staring back faceless
a portrait with no eyes 
i'm a cat that barks
pukes on  his mouse
and licks the blood in the cream
like a midnight movie in hell
where we die in installments
mortality being merely 
a vertical management administration
in a graveyard **** town replete 
with broken whiskey bottles 
and stained weathered paper cups
where the drunk sleep on newspapers
like a roof of bones over the dead
zebra Feb 26
earth wakes like a blinking marble
worm cake
ravine of ravenous hunger
breathing bowl of fruit
and black hole cauldron
of spit and sediment
where life grows like debt

disembodied skyward souls
who's haloed ground
a funeral coif
of etched intaglio on grim headstones
that remain arcane symbols
of refuse underworlds
sunken under black beds
shaped like centuries of tragedy
in moldering graves
and dusty trailer park archaeologies

cosmological eclipses
open pleasures and sultry winds
form charades of architype golden eyes
that impregnate us with dreams
like animated tarot cards
while body-caged man-o-spheres
on apocalyptic mountain sides
crawl and claw in endless nights to thrive
with every breath and squalid gasp
we propel ourselves through this life
by sacrificing the present for the future
in arduous labors of discord
and glowering autopsies
of smoke & blood
until we remain
unable to live with ourselves

i vaguely remember
traveling disembodied
like a new sun
past empty hulled tenements
where the living dead
perform soap opera cameos
as sliding doors
open and shut
like switchblades
on withered clanking subways
of shuffling bones
all the way to Hades

time bruised and beaten
bedlam of age
we each fall forgotten
grey as pulping zombies
shuttering downwards
from primordial nuclides
of contagion and death

gossiping Doppelgangers
on tesseract winds
witnessed energized prodigies
teaching the dead to construct dreams
with drum stick rhythms
and flutes of savage craving
in meta whirls
that mobilize astral spitfires
faster than tachyons
in a forever extravagant next world
monster infinity
zebra Feb 17
how do i know what i think
if i dont write it down

                                         i cant stop talking crazy
bad ideas are rooted in Neuro Pathogens
idea parasites'

                                         **** worms of irrationality

i'm a mess underneath the surface causing me to suffer a mental complex
which is under digested unarticulated expression

                                          the universal dialogue of

p­ost modernism is an idea pathology
          ­                                  okay, nothing isn't relative to anything

reason remains lost through the sneaky ****** language of white science intellectual terrorism

                                             watch out what you say in a free society

epistemologies are numerological evidence,
a numerical network from a broad base of data
and are a work of cumulative evidence

                                               i cant stop thinking about the way i

you need gesticular fortitude to free yourself from the tribe

                                                 i'm afraid to tell anyone how i really

so many victims of politically correct grotesques
are collective Munchausen pathos

                                                  i'm my own victim but it's                                                     your fault  

in the Oppression Olympics of radical egalitarianism i'm a star

                                                   *i'm so agreeable i hate me, thats why
                                                     i'm better than you

Fascism is a
fanatical need for order, and or else

                                                    mass graves and chimpanzee politics

when your frustrated, its your obligation as a citizen to transform your feelings into an articulated argument

                                                     i hate you

militant lesbians attack male virtue while they dress like guys
                                                       i'm sorry about the testosterone,
                                                   ­     .....bad ****!

we extract the logos from chaos
and hold it above into habitable order and an ideal

                                                        i have my Porsche, where's yours
                                                         and no i'm not looking at
                                                         your ****   your ****  your ****

my truth is grounded in your frustration
A poem of social theory prompted by  a conversation with Gadd Sad and Jorden Peterson
zebra Feb 8
i'm as tiny as a fake something 
in the middle of nowhere
on the edge of nothing
with brazen teeth for grinning bites
and the knee of listening
that howls into a phone
and tells me of hunger for food and herb

i have no respect for the weak
hating my vulnerability
shrunken living in a cardboard room
stiff and dry the size of the sky
ranting tears in beards of rain
a five o'clock shadow of begging meditations
until deaths' lips formed the shape of O 
shaping a tunnel rimed in late afternoon
telling me her body is but metaphor
for orbiting angels
a fashionable estate of limbs
in apple fruited curved headlands
demitasse islands of past desire
and pink glimmering heavenly clouds
licking the blue
where the emptiness of life used to be

she shimmers rainbow tranquilizers 
packaged by twos
in shinny tinfoil
slick as icicles
for the perfect dose 
you can feel in your hand like braille 

at tongues touch 
it folds me into my dark warm nothing
showing me that death 
has its own special charisma
like calico tattoos
or a blinking colorless neon

it's mouth opens like an opera singer 
and eats my eyes 
till these sunken alters liquidate
and breath ascends distant from the ache of want
in the knee of forgetting
black as crows
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