What a mess!

local press crowded in on their own flesh

outraged passersby tossed bile onto the arriving detectives

call this an investigation?

campaigning in more sunny climes, he stopped for lunch. only now he realised lunch was latex hardware store with plastic badges announcing sales on bovine brassieres and frontyard statuary

in their cotton slippers by clocks turned upside down in the horse-light stands a weasel who is falling down a rabbit-shaft

on a wednesday kickback, or jerusalem as a fountain, raining blood because the milk has been drawn back to the breast

by a steel warrior with a hyacinth for a head

but the darling bathrobe of suicide is warming a little, a little lily called fred who is one inch
away from a horses' hoof. now no inches away.

the winter yesmen eat candyfloss behind the bus-station which has flown away, and their shivers are like stockings on a child. one is tapping on a xylophone with his right ear whilst a flock of pink birds solemnly leave his right ear in single file, so they can get through the bars to widower elvis, half-horse, half-blacksmith

"the wheels of gratitude grind slowly." It was a strange voice. I say strange because it was pear-shaped. Playing underfoot were garden juke-boxes spilling out jazz standards like a slow pornographic tongue.

In under five minutes you could be chatting to other singles. Why wait?

girl w pink spots, rooster and devil

......................................................................................................................((((
(99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999beach) alice

.................too beautiful for belltown

........................................................................................................and all who ride in her

.

,

..................................................

.........................................................the musician

.........................................

....,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.................................................we are the crumbs from hell's table

.................................................................................rene rene magritte is midnight

................................................portrait of a son as his father

..............................................,portrait of a father as his son

.











..................... going home





.

..............the secret

..........

..........the understanding

...........the truffle

........
..dust particle

.....................

...............................i want to know all about you

................fill me up

.

i write you an e-mail........a rainfall of nails, the moon in seamed stockings, a lizard in the rough

you have been laid off from your own movie

your mother with the carving knife mother soap-slicing the curtains

summery blizzard legdangledporch

beetles swarming in through the church doors

the tiny apologetic puddles in the back of people's eyes

the long inch of this night, our fine fins flutter

flowers from the rooftop's secret orifice

we sit in dark rows, watching intently as people go through certain predetermined motions on a raised stage. we devote our lives to this!

how many acres and a mule? a perfect egg, a bat for the fruitfly, a million tiny shipwrcks

a red velvet throat, as inept as the rain

the hand-grenades, the lipstick

high this town, on the big hill beneath the abandoned granary

arrangements are made (preparing the egg)

falling very slowly

noon, downtown mermaids, almost

the lover's breath

My aunt always made butter for the peasants. My aunt always bought a chocolate cake when we came to visit, and was always scared we'd drop it on her thick carpet. Her husband was bald, you see. He didn't, for he was blind. To everything except his car, and a pert young secretary called Bert. Short for Berticelli. Any cherubim is a cherubmine. Something worth digging for. A vast warehouse, aircraft carrier kind of place, filled with pale light, and the gentlest creatures you ever saw left as a bloody mess in a parking lot. But not now. Now they're flutterfloatdriftteasing towards us.

.

Dreams the horse-maiden whose hair now flows from the turret into the mouth of my mother who died in a bubblebath, of dandelions in denim robes and sea-lions and cup-purple sofas sown by the desert-builder of gottenlooky who stares year upon year from his garden trellis.

.

To say that your pals like this country would be to exceed the limits of poetic license. And all their future lovers, tethered outside like moonbeams. Flat gravestones and assembly-line funerals, blindfolded by passion, dappled by his urine, softened by a rainless autumn. a cache of metal parts and artifacts of largesse. cinching her waist, the pain of anticipation. flying with antlers on display. gliding into the aperture. seeing light where the flood receded.

.

The sudden complexity of a tongue. In tiny groups, rocks re-assemble.

oh bloody mammoth you got rabies from flushing toilets in a neighbor's pyjamas dunces drive card of lead-pudding chauffeur, but jinx of fratboys falling headburst on concrete, now hot for an instant. My last nose got pregnant, it was aborted into space like a prude on rollerskates. have you ever risked everything? of course not! brian appleseed played games with his mother that made her skirt twitch as she hung from the rafter. the island was quieter after that, and the boss was attached to a lump of keys bigger than floridas. florida is a good woman and will meat a boiled ex in the morning. the baby just needs to be loved and is far from a warrior. thus flowers and spaghetti and getting from a to b. scurrilous mice eat treacle in a parking lot filled with lips. each can be entered and will lead to a different climate. I prefer the tropical rainforest one, but sometime the desert hits the spot. I like big suns. and so does debbie, she of the fur-lined pram who's kid is studying to be a window-cleaner. the middle class makes me want to vomit, like all vulgar foods. hairpin bends in a shoe box. santa behind a willow tree. weasels in the attic. hundreds of ribbons tied to a hog. quick exit fireman to brazil, shakey mine-prop for a doorknob where pete makes his miniature-sized versions of days and weeks. he's saving up for a year. lord of harmonica-sucking, and rarely seen without Gallant Sue, the tigress giantess on whose back he is transported to the foodstore at odd times of the day, for the purchse of plantains, from the skins of which she has made curtains for her room as well as an ampitheater which is the envy of a hard day strike-breaking.

..........................................................................................................................................................................syrupy liquid creeps into all the furniture. ladders pray.

.

my grandmother was a fine woman. from a distance you could hardly see her.

.

eggshells in heaven, reminding us of other sartorial choices, like bloomers before the first frost. 1963. rising falls, idaho. eyes ago, i dunno. lockheed disaster

where orphans feed upon false buttresses. pond-woman and trees of kool-aid. an old joke

by the lip of a zoo.

.

any conk of yours is a concubine.

.

the most vigilant blood relatives filtered through a soft sieve, a rear-end precision, a flagrancy, a plaything of giant skymonkeys, a kin of lungships, scouring iron rod every bustiere for a fleck of dog saliva or other precious metal, dying to be flaggelated slowly, living for that once-a-month opportunity that leaves it's prow untouched, not rumpled like mare's teeth or revived by tax-collectors. he leaves his dad alone for a change, huddled in khaki and cardboard, not caring about food or effigies, licking the carpet in case the soldiers haven't already come through, a taste of snot or treacle wafting abroad.

.

Prison tattoos or pension plans. or both, it's all just haggling over the price.

n

n

n

Dear Change-of-Scenery,
................................................ever since that trip to Canada, I've eaten nothing but oysters. The garbage-man has three testicles. Is this unusual?

My dog is at her mother's now. Whatever they're eating, they make it for Mooch too. If they're having eggs for breakfast, he gts eggs too. They let him in and out of the patio all day. Every 15 minutes it's "oh, mooch, do you want to come in?" Then they'll let him out again 5 minutes later. It's all they do all day.

Your new boyfriend seems less intelligent than your old one, but more good-natured. Is this true?

yrs, The Inkspot

ps. A man offered to buy a cigarete from me today for a quarter.

When I said yes, he seemed really pissed.

What the hell did he expect?


PPS. A woman stopped me on the street today and asked me if I was a famous musician in some band she'd never heard of. I think I'm really getting somewhere!

your cousin sara, curled up inside a leaf in early autumn

I was walking home with my sausages, tapping the fire hydrant for good luck as normal, but today the man with no ears walked past with his dotty dalmation, howling at the school, and the fish ould've gasped their shopping list but for the stutter of a nearby puddle. I've never been more thankful for rain, all sparkly them darting about like a biology video. The biggest one was just as ginger as Molly and when I knelt down to offer it some sausage I swear I could even see her fur! I just left the little meatball floating there -- if the fish don't get it, someone will. What is it for ten, I muttered aimless as I walked in, Molly curled up in her usual place. I put one in her favorite blue bowl, and started frying the rest in the medium pan.

I heard the engine revving up, and by the time we'd left the area we must have been going 50. I tried to appear unconcerned, for Molly's sake. We passed a roadsign which said, Beware of men that collect hats, and then another saying Beware of hats that collect men. then Miaow! I was praying for a Yield. It's been difficult for the farmers.

Fred Latimer and Joe "the sponge" Dinglebat still talk warmly, weather permitting, about my imitation of a moth climbing ot of a tea-cup. Of course, that was many imperialist invasions ago, but on a clear Knight the round table still resounds like a pair of hips. Time moves like clockwork in the kettledrum of a purple snare...

They have crawled out, tears in their beautiful masculine eyes. Covered in mud, arms pushed back by their childrens' gravity. I love you, earth. There's lots of serious things down there -- for example, it boxes you down and groans around you. I've ridden bareback on the snake, said the first man coming up. You should see the size of it he added, I'm nothing compared to him. Asked for some chewing tobacco. Returned home, to the blinding white of his wife's t-shirt. Squinting, as if it was television.

the hips of the black snake...

I ache for the flowers of saturation, knowing they will come

memories are tinsel yelpings

king knockonwood desires nothing more than your full execution. please send yourself in the mail as proof of loyalty. mail head seperately.