Today is the day of the Secret Santa scrimmage!
I knee-to-chest crouch up field, crotch squeezed too tightly.
But, I forgot to go through puberty. Yup, nearly nightly.
I pick on grass, offense, no yield,
attack, gather presents for the defense.
What up Team B, our presents are two tense to be defended.
"Destroy something beautiful,
and scratch the blood of your victim,"
In the Middle East Field,
the beast claws at the genitals of a beautiful brown penny.
Vicars and victors pour their pickled plums into crankshaft shit gun legs.
Aimed right at my left cleft philtrum, the pellet rifle sprays come.
I lick them off, coughing,
my coffee stained teeth reveal my tongue,
black with oil, packed with vitamins,
soiling
my water, bottle plastic pumped through adamantium.
So many spotlights illuminate bottle caps,
that we don't have to see the tops.
Black light casts dark shades into hidden unmentionables.
Black fuel gargles in the throat of a combustion engine.
I gargle a combustion engine's fuel to intimidate the other team.
The referee doesn't see but he looks over suspiciously.
I charmed some Fearful American boys,
I pierced a piece of periodontal peace with one a those Teeth Hose toys.
Breached with a guttural rumble, their bubbles broke out.
Meanwhile deflated snakes squirmed beneath each waist
low above the dentists' chair.
Chastity is wasted on rotten dental hygiene.
Puberty never reaches men of plates.
It's too late for bass.
White. MAN?
White can stand alone for butter bread bland.
Those who seemingly mean only to carry out old worthless shitty plans
for war against toasts and phantoms
tripping ancient booby-traps in the holy middle lands, are Pus White, yes,
but they're not Men.
Saturday
Oh, It's Ending Alright (flash 5)
My friend Bebb says we've got 5 billion to go,
NO. SLOWER
Humans are slowing the astrological process.
The sun dresses me in childrens' clothes, overalls.
The moon shines translucently through 'em.
The Society Of the Concrete World Hegemony:
Built of the last bushes.
Hail the Kindling King-Queen!
Each sperm kinged at the other side of the checkerboard,
black and red they all run diagonal,
our new world has but its own blood to live off.
Auto-cannibalism: reuse, recycle, revenge.
I took a cleaver with me and I only use the edge.
My eyes are now glass balls of president nether-meat,
crystallized with plastic kingly crowned rubbish.
You'll find me and your cousin,
hashing a bath in the sink with old vitamin water--
bottled in bottled water bottles, stoppered with towels.
Everyone smells
like kelp-dog vagina sweat on fusty spongiform
leanin' toward the sky like dickweed in the mornin sun.
The parasites have a life of their own, floatin'
their own on top of lives to live, not living on
eels but thriving on steel flesh,
android diseases
licking the herpied mouth of my digital brain cave.
Our paintings return to these hovel's walls,
each bro groveling over philosophical cannibals.
Fine art reads the instructions to the toaster
Simple pastries are chef made.
Pop-Tarts are my food everyday.
NO. SLOWER
Humans are slowing the astrological process.
The sun dresses me in childrens' clothes, overalls.
The moon shines translucently through 'em.
The Society Of the Concrete World Hegemony:
Built of the last bushes.
Hail the Kindling King-Queen!
Each sperm kinged at the other side of the checkerboard,
black and red they all run diagonal,
our new world has but its own blood to live off.
Auto-cannibalism: reuse, recycle, revenge.
I took a cleaver with me and I only use the edge.
My eyes are now glass balls of president nether-meat,
crystallized with plastic kingly crowned rubbish.
You'll find me and your cousin,
hashing a bath in the sink with old vitamin water--
bottled in bottled water bottles, stoppered with towels.
Everyone smells
like kelp-dog vagina sweat on fusty spongiform
leanin' toward the sky like dickweed in the mornin sun.
The parasites have a life of their own, floatin'
their own on top of lives to live, not living on
eels but thriving on steel flesh,
android diseases
licking the herpied mouth of my digital brain cave.
Our paintings return to these hovel's walls,
each bro groveling over philosophical cannibals.
Fine art reads the instructions to the toaster
Simple pastries are chef made.
Pop-Tarts are my food everyday.
Tuesday
Take Human Bites
Two fingers are pressed against my
wrist
pulling down the rope bridge tendon
within
the bleached fish lutefisk, shielded inside a freezedried
tomato
Two fingers are pressed down to check
my pulse.
Patting my chest and
my pockets and
my jacket.
I'm so sadly unattractive.
My hands are damp and too cooled,
sunlit by dungeon flames.
Pulse-checking down on
my skinned wrist,
the dungeon floors are wrought
with ropes and
mud covered.
with lots of
dirt and water, I help build up our empire
back to the skies over civilization, clumpy and lock-wed.
My honorable ambitions fill the wise city's heritage-bins.
My empire needs a sewer system, ceramic tiles blue and white,
butt-brown with sludge.
My empire needs a dishwasher
in order to clean the lipstick off of coffee cups
that would otherwise sit in steamy hospitals next to Nurses,
perched next to cranberry sugar scones.
Hopefully, there'll be a few bites left for me.
wrist
pulling down the rope bridge tendon
within
the bleached fish lutefisk, shielded inside a freezedried
tomato
Two fingers are pressed down to check
my pulse.
Patting my chest and
my pockets and
my jacket.
I'm so sadly unattractive.
My hands are damp and too cooled,
sunlit by dungeon flames.
Pulse-checking down on
my skinned wrist,
the dungeon floors are wrought
with ropes and
mud covered.
with lots of
dirt and water, I help build up our empire
back to the skies over civilization, clumpy and lock-wed.
My honorable ambitions fill the wise city's heritage-bins.
My empire needs a sewer system, ceramic tiles blue and white,
butt-brown with sludge.
My empire needs a dishwasher
in order to clean the lipstick off of coffee cups
that would otherwise sit in steamy hospitals next to Nurses,
perched next to cranberry sugar scones.
Hopefully, there'll be a few bites left for me.
Thursday
instrument symphony
For shore, I believe I tend to drain you
because I don't actually care about the crap that you've been trying to clean off my pocketbook
Really, please, go care about someone else.
I'm putting up a store front and
trying to sell my left-over chap-sticks.
But, listen kid,,,
if you buy me business-drinks you may fare better.
Sperms spreaded by the maidflower pruned by Queen Phillip, the Spanish whore,
listen, I tshell yhio kid,
will shlay my Indyins,
y'may b'ayble to ship some of thayre pure sugarcanes back to the states.
Cage 'em, so my delicate face, reacting to the loud roar
of the deep black pitch I produce f'r ya
'r written in your damn books of truth and fiction uf non fiction discourse...
uf course 'cause th'sourceiss corrupt'd
with facilely interested forced empathy.
because I don't actually care about the crap that you've been trying to clean off my pocketbook
Really, please, go care about someone else.
I'm putting up a store front and
trying to sell my left-over chap-sticks.
But, listen kid,,,
if you buy me business-drinks you may fare better.
Sperms spreaded by the maidflower pruned by Queen Phillip, the Spanish whore,
listen, I tshell yhio kid,
will shlay my Indyins,
y'may b'ayble to ship some of thayre pure sugarcanes back to the states.
Cage 'em, so my delicate face, reacting to the loud roar
of the deep black pitch I produce f'r ya
'r written in your damn books of truth and fiction uf non fiction discourse...
uf course 'cause th'sourceiss corrupt'd
with facilely interested forced empathy.
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