And Then I Woke Up


Knightly Knee

in the fern park, and yanked by the trousers of song

gives steel to the black root of an eye

but still meets starlight only half-way.

Jack frost and his henchmen out prowling

yesterday's hairy buffalo on their shoulders

ankle-cloud, loud-clicking, and why not

beach-glow an un-tearable distance

yellow kinetic, metal, petal

Then canopied store-front muscles itself

(the flames are porn-movie, silent, but in color
frigidaire doorknobs in a forest)

haircut, haircut imposed by a husband.

these thin sentences feel like my soul

i want a long sentence










now I remember what I

you see


"a handbag on the moon"


where the hell is Alice? where's she fucking gone!?


and now here's the damn mailman, bringing some unpaid bills.


off with his head! off with his head!


out of my head!! out of my head!!


At least I'll be getting an audience with the Queen, and that'll be interesting.



I'll never go back to the bastards


because I can't stand prison food


But the meadow's turned dry


and it's just all over for a while, y'know?



It's not easy, dying, but we all have a go



years later,


one of Karl Marx's daughters, Eleanor, was asked to reminisce about what it was like growing up


with the founder of the communist movement. He was a big guy. She recalled that


one day, when she was a little girl, he sat her on is knee and he said to her, "For all the terrible


crimes of christianity, I can almost forgive it. Because it brought something new into the


world, the worship, of the child."



I'm late, I'm late, said that bloody cute bunny rabbit


but at least now I know


that it's never too late




How I Nearly Lost My Girl

Rake-coal deliverence swallows lovely Alice into my deepest pocket
with loungy eyes pushing out, my honey-dewed melancholy, covered in my blood, my crazy dappled horse
in razor-blade knife-swirl rogue sailor now covered
my crazy dappled horse, such Denver springtime, Jack Kerouac covered in duct-tape, my rigid canvas
this somnolent piss-priest sunday of store-bought snoozy envelopes, but she's covered in blood, frigid darkness, queasy ribbons in my day-time ship
which floats goat ridicule down the boulevard of how you raped a teenager and don't just fly it!
I know my own typewriter and I know your type. I know what your game is, and I know where you don't give.
So much weed, but you never got higher than a swordfish.
Oh the girls love you, but I can't font you because you don't exist.
Sure, blame it on the other guys. you shouldn't be so eskimo, you shouldn't be so jig-saw
you soldered your father into a two-inch horse so you could weep better
your butcher's church of dish-washers sleeps boney-bowled daze me now.
I wouldn't forsake your elf-baked lawn if you engraved me a whistle and 19 pink buttons. Oh, that's nice, did you make it yourself? That's just pee, and Alice agrees.
We met you on the midnight meadow and you tried to steal her boat. Anger? I've got lots of tissues.
I'd consider killing you, if I thought you were alive.
Alice is worth crying for, and I just did. You won't see humanity 'til its' feet are in your face. She still looks beautiful, and she says hi. She's busy in the kitchen, bottling some jam.
And you who is never me, you're lost in the lonely crowd.


Monday is a samuraii symphony of vodka oranges and Tuesday is a piglet-farm

Every rooftop in this land can be directly connected to the japanese ocean by the use of a simple finger-tip

But on Wednesday, asteroids over-shot their fame

On Thursday at 2pm, everyone in NYC suddenly adopted the doggy-position, and a cake store in Wisconsin blushed

I know what you're thinking, why isn't new girl Alice on the cover of Vogue Magazine? She is, but only I can see her

On Friday, Snoopy Dog declared to the world's press that music should now be considered to be "wet architecture"

Frank says, if you bring a toe-nail to the table, don't pretend its a javelin, and that a college diploma is a turbulent fake moustache

He's trying to rally the neighbors, for a public burning of Existentialism for Lovers

Alice is today's violent blue shadow

On Saturday morning, Snoopy Dog publicly mused that a juke box always reminds him of a hand moving slowly away

On Sunday evening he qualified his comment, as he wasn't sure, in this context, what the word 'slowly' actually means, and that perhaps the phrase 'the hand made a hovering retreat, without moving' would be more accurate

This is a god's life

The only cure for dieting is food

And on Sunday, the entire middle east took a step forward, when Bin Laden was seen glancing at a mini-skirt

(I found this pushed under my bedroom door when I woke up.
The handwriting was almost unreadable, but here it is.)

The Love Song Of Frank Jest. (a comedy of terrors)

She asked me for a quarter for a public telephone
Downtown in the afternoon, that's a rather pubic moan
Well, I'm always kind to strangers and I'll give a dog a bone
So I gave her twenty dollars but considered it alone
Well, I always cry at funerals, especially my own

A man knocked on the door today, looking for some change
I told him that she wasn't home and could he call again
We argued Hugo Chavez then he quickly cleaned my drain

As George Clinton said to me, I can feel your pain
But when his head turned president, he did it all again

My dad's read a hundred books on the 2nd-floor whore
He borrowed my binoculars, and then he wrote some more

She's staring at her favorite film, it's on a popcorn ceiling
Her best friend puts on her coat, it's time that she was leaving

For a midnight date at Texaco with a guy who thinks he's Elvis
He won't let anyone pump it out, banana to his pelvis

Fred's in the kitchen, cooking up a worm
It's on bed of oatmeal and I hope it doesn't burn

There's a lady at the bus-stop, a clone of Paris Hilton
I lent her 20 cell-phones and an epic poem by Milton

Art-critics amongst you may fault this dreary rhyme
But some twat's rapping at the bathroom door and we can't afford the Times

I'm happy for that bubbly sound from the bedroom of Aurora
She is the apple of his eye and surely he does core her

I did like her wanking, but when they come together
it's like a convict in a crate of drunken peacock feathers

I'm Frank, son of Ulysses, just googling the weather!


can't demand such contraband to land me many fans
...................but for it came as quick as a morning shit, and now I have to wash my hands



(Well, that's frank. But when we interviewed him for the spare room, he seemed really normal.)

A Town Called China

Enter a Chinese pastry with caution. Do not approach Flo with terror, Dalaii Lamas make cute winter coats. If you see a wet parallel universe, just pope it right in. The reason they're having a jihad is because they're really mohammad about what you did. But two prongs don't make me white. And two tongues don't make you christ. Cigarette lighter. Saw it slide into the bronze sky like a pair of red stilettos in a cold movie. I could drown in your venetian blinds, or fight.

Turn turn turn the buckle, the fever of milky porcupine-stew, swamping the virgin envelope I nearly sleep with, just in time abortions, waiting for the pick-up truck called frostbite. Alice says, let's shed some music on this farmyard of silver medallions, but my ankles are soap in a turtle's mouth.

A green hospital in quicksand grins at six plastic bags and a baseball player calls it home. Calling home is a triple by-pass, then a sharp left into cynicism. And reverse-charges are how they bowled raw gold from Jamaica in the first place

Jamaica? No, she came of her own accord. I swear officer, I hardly crushed her. Don't rape me, I just give here. Oh, says Alice, that sounds like the truth accordion to carp. Then enter the dragon. Still, accordions on pasta sauce, with the blessing of a million frogs. I love here rent-free. And as they say in the pelican-brothels of my rubberised Beijing, twin towers don't make a fight.



I Wish I Hadn't Cried So Much

The rivetted soldiers of putrid dawn and the weathered all-night bus are both waving their cracked fingers of soup and terror into the lacey turnpike of john's baudelaire's midget, and the fatman on the wooden spoon won't move for Susan's furious bellowing of graceland trousers, which pretty much gives your pint of kingdom to the shelf-stacker from Idaho in his mother-mollusc bowtie.

So we wait like seventeen hamsters to file their way out of the umbilical yard of exercise-bikes and machine-guns. While mamma dash fakes her white glove most starkly, they stay she can ride that car most greenly, with her hands tied behind her back they stay, for her uncle's rainbow is organic of the debt-free society of aluminum-tyre leopard unequals, and gets his morning drink curtsy, if you please, from Fiona's ancient wardrobe of wisdom and tears. Your grandma's proud of her new teeth. It's a great collection of toothpicks, it's like watching Mary Shelley on a trampoline.

So a man wonders where his keys are, on nights like moon-shattering froggy hiccups pile-up on the freeway and twenty dead, and her medicine chest on fire still in my spooky garage, and Brian won't leave home without his dad's raping permision. Frank Jest sticks his head into the doorjam and then spreads it unevenly onto Fred's balding head. Suddenly purple Fred screams, "Apathy is setting in around here, and we don't even have the rent yet!" Steve works multiple rotating graveyards in the plaster of paris airport inside the homeless box, where he helps carry the wheelchairs and other free gifts onto the mid-West planes.

It's all an autumnal fall from grace for Gene Kelly, more children sprawled on his dancing shoes than a priest has flocked. War-torn refugees litter the newspapers, and Texaco has formed a basketball team in response. Aurora won't play ball, as usual, she woke up believing mexican pinatas have rendered the white house into a painting by Renoir of a bishop being stabbed by 12 nuns, and Frank Jest wandering around the house for three days whispering 'kangeroo-fire'. His current ambition is to be a scone, followed closely by a hibernating bear.

It's about time someone pulled the needles out of my eyes so I can see where I'm growing. In the car-tyre alleyways we fumble for loose dandelion change and sparkling muffins, but on the rooftops no-one escapes the bells of ravished grace, which slides a knife through bundles of rotting hair and mixed-media declarations in 17 languages, and loose cravings for asteroid stirrups that glow in the park, where me and Frank sat down like goldfish to ham a shake, or rue the insane fingers of fridges that jam the blunders shut with malice in their frostbitten heads. Crystal got fired today, for stealing beautiful glances from her co-workers. Her vocal talents are medusic, and she plays a cruel guitar. She spent all night writing a song called I want you, whoever the fuck you are.

The results of course were indelible. Uninvented, we carelessly placed a piled-high 5-gallon bucket of sugar on the doorstep for halloween. But none of the kids took it, so then we placed it by the bus-stop of clarity, and it's still there. People are just too busy to stink, or even steal, or even brake the virtue leaves slowly with tongues of moony leather, which swim half-price into hot-dog screaming turtle's face. I buy all my vehicles from the dollar-store. Most chopped liver dreams of being liquidised into a mailman, hopping dad's where the bunny is.

Yo Daddy Fluke, flower-picker, 5-star grapefruit specialist, thinks he's east of eden, but marble factories begin at the toes and slowly work up, until fate throws a lucky bugger into the bike-wheel, then it's back to the spooky garage for a pick me up, a lending library in the mess-room of lice, and three days later the broken back furnace of insipid managment has been tranquilised into a well-worn version of joy. As Cecil be the mill once said, If you want to find Ophelia, check the personal column.

Sanity still rides shotgun to an elfin fairground, but sadly the blue-bottles have reached an impasse. That's why the entire middle east is waiting in line at the blood-bank with Alice. We all play second-fiddle but tell the police we're orange astronauts. Mi case-history es tu case-history. The man we see thru our blindfolds has eyes like treacle, and a grey-white beard that drags the ground.

When I went into the bathroom with Queen Fortuna, to take my dreamy piss, taking the tittie from hot neptune's pillar, Bob Dylan whispered into Alice's ear, Study History. Lots of Jews get lynched.


She tells me she is frying eggs on a stove, and that great attention must be paid to the work. If the egg is either too soft or too hard, she has to eat the egg herself, and then begin again. When an egg is perfectly fried, she slices it in half with a knife and then carries it over to the sewing machine. Then she stitches it back together, and uses it in the dress she is making for a baby doll. The dress is being made from a pattern, from these correctly fried eggs that she is sewing together. There is noise from the room above, from a carpenter, and there is a grille between the two rooms, and it is directly above the stove. So as she cooks, sawdust is continually falling through the grille onto her, like snowflakes. The doll's dress is gradually being made. The stove, the sewing-machine, and the grille. The work is taking a long time, because if the egg is not fried correctly, she must eat it herself.


I am in the middle of a hallway, which is dimly lit, and is inside a large 19th century house. I am aware that at the end of the hallway there is a room which is brightly lit and contains perhaps six people. There is a man standing behind me and his right arm is over my shoulder, and it holds a small piece of cloth similar to a handkerchief. He is holding it about 2 inches in front of my mouth, and I am already starting to gag. I am paralysed. Neither of us is moving. I think he intends to close it against my mouth. I am already having trouble breathing.


i dropped my cell by my shelf. buy my sea-shore

zgodiva's horse of sundayswaiting

...................................................Rubbing Your Mercurial Heart With The Head of A Lettuce
...................................................Is As Useful As Forming A Soccer Team In Winter

What do you mean, where do I come from? I come from the working class. (This is a work in progress.)

Waiting for soldiery misfortune, with pockets full of yellow turnips, is like riding a dinasour into one's own mouth,

it sparkles like fear, traversing the frigid canyon of placid kinetics, or supine lice bellowing Someone killed my father!, into a empty warehouse of starlight. A stoned vacancy is my lot.

It beckons collosal reindeer to sublimate the window, or makes mice mellow harp-players at the wrong time. Freedom is nosing in lentil soup whilst pretending to be a piano, or cutting off your big toes and swapping them around. It cuts the bread sideways and leaves a bad taste in the fingers of the bus-stop. You can't call my mother that! Well, that lad with the flat cap shouldn't be holding a sign that says Man killed by clothes.

Craving cream-cakes is the basic duty of any house-wife, which I relish, and wouldn't emigrate to a parlour room without furniture unless my grandma was whistling songs of the civil war, my egg-cup, the turtles of tomorrow are melting in price charles' mouth, which smells of lavender and bridges and billowing pipes railroaded the frog-master in this jittery sleep. Please take that raccoon out of your mouth. I can't, because it's closed. Socks speak for themselves. Elementary school, my dear, watson television tonight?

Either urine trouble, or it's just pee. Hey, peter, paul and shelley, was john in the fridge when tony crept upstairs? I can't remember that tavern in Italy because I wasn't there. But it's good to have prometheus unbound. I'm sorry, but by the time you read this I will be fred. A godiva's horse of sundays has cleared my bookshelves entirely.


The problem with photographs is, you can't hide much in them

a telegram floats over the radio'd interference

palamine toothbrush
between rouged and buddhist lips

sponge sky

penguin restless
the knotted ropes of limbs feather upright

she disappears stage left, in a blue bikini............the stars bending their capes over the simple east

foxtrot in a foxhole, foxy fish

i snagged my sweater on a corner of your star

a quivering root at high altitude

a bowl filled with blood....................month of mondays hammering nails into sores

lamp nostrils
bishop sacrifice in a stone tower

wind winds it's way toward my home
my aztec hazelnut
my squirrely woman

your body unlocks a long river

i want you, i want you to be somebody
you glitter, radiant night!
and i am becoming virgin for you
the tiniest bird in the tiniest wooden box

It's Thanksgiving day here in the planet of the free, which some of you in Iceland may not be aware of, and I don't really blame you. My van won't start, and the cat just pissed on the bed. Still, there's an upside to everything, I'd Pocahantas, wooden U? I can hear the fish sizzling in Alaska.

It's a time when Americans gather on street-corners to ceremoniously burn replicas of Thomas Jefferson's garters and powdered white wig, just as Egyptians tie inflatable Virgins of Guadaloupes onto their heads and drink coffee until 2am. It's a great time to be young, or riddled with age, or both.

I intend to celebrate by having a shower. Each worships in their own way.

I was walking home from Diva coffee-shop this morning and saw a couple walking towards me. For a moment I thought the man was my dead father. The same shape, same posture, same way of moving. And the the woman seemed to be my mother. Of course, they weren't, but it did seem somehow significant, as I hadn't known that I was thinking about them at all. A nice little trick to play on myself. I'm like you, I think about everything. And everything bleeds together.

I'd like to go to Iceland sometime. It looks so spectacular from the photographs I've seen, and the reality must be even more breath-taking.

Debbie had long blonde air and was one of the high-school hippies. Damn, I wish she was here now!

I keep thinking about Leon Trotsky today, dear dear Leon Trotsky. Not so much about the things he did, more just about him. And now I'm thinking about the beautiful thing he wrote in his journal in Mexico, as an old man, just before they killed him. I can't recall the exact words, but it's something like "I'm sitting at the table in the garden. The weather is warm, and above the wall I can see the blue sky and I can see the bright sun. Natasha has just bought me coffee. The world is beautiful. May future generations cleanse it of all injustice and oppression."

Happy Thanksgiving, to all who know me, and to all those I know.

I just went to the bathroom, and heard the TV news from Aurora's room reporting on a local man killed outside a bar last night.

Even more, Happy Thanksgiving to all those I don't know.

Have you heard the one about... and on we go!


My room-mate Aurora (no, that's not the joke), she says that guys always hit on her when she's in line at the food-bank. But since she's on crystal meth and never eats, why else would she be there? She says the most common pick-up lines are

1. Haven't I seen you here before?

2. Where do you work?

3. Do you have your own alleyway?

4. Oh, I'm sorry, did I knock your cornflakes over?

....................(with the more subtle varient, Would you recommend this particular brand of cornflakes? I've never tried them before)

5. And fivally, the sadly universal bravado, Do you slum here often?

6. And sixally,
.........Is that a rotting eggplant in your coat pocket that is now leaking it's juices over that disgusting hippie skirt,
or are you just glad to see me?

Tie my kangaroo down, boys, tie my kangaroo down

Actually, Aurora's a pretty tough chick. When Mohammed from the 7-11 finally got the nerve to ask her what she thought of Frank Jest's second cousin Brian's goldfish, she immediately replied "I don't."

But I've finally figured it out. She's working for the French Government.


Yes, it does take immigrants a while to get used to our ways. I was talking to a guy at the bus-stop this morning and I asked him where he was from. He said he was from Africa. I was polite, but firm. I said, "We don't say Africa anymore. We say Africa-America."

Hey, check out this idea for a collage. A photograph of the Twin Towers, all flames and smoke billowing out. One tower is saying to the other "Oh, please just hold me!"

And the other tower replies, "I feel like something is dying inside me."

and the title, at the bottom?....... Oh, You Crazy Kids!


What's the capitol of Hope, Massachusetts?............Don't know, never been there

On the night of the sixth, Aurora Borealis was just hanging, when God leaned down and had a little candle-light talk with her. He said, Fuck you, you're on your own.

So these days, she mainly watches videos.

And yet, it is a beautiful and unforgettable name.


my faced west posture is slipping

hairline-sky and pumpkin, skimming the yellow tambourine with your fingertips of kinetic lace and borrowed wheelbarrows of vasectomies. She likes to watch teriyaki plastic dive, being born under the green zodiac of mirror, but won't empty, or hesitate upstairs at westlake mall, where my work is flat and circular, the avenue b sees food in discovery park is easy to find. Hopping onto 17 on friday with my cellphone punching a joke hat of irish saturdays as far as doing it as soon as possible that's not really a throat-snoring deal for a side-sleeper with lakeside positioning of my kleptomaniac boyfriend who punches the floor to teddybear the sprawling research, my viridiana's bracelet.

daze on a chinese friday my undulating princess is moving in upstairs to the parking lot, lets box, 8 years of pies in summer is cool.

so we rode the french turtle to ecuador, bulging salmon in the basement sent the cats crazy as hairpins in a bowl of musical instruments called trevor, and placed most of the week under house-arrest, heart drank the chipped broth of how burnt oil makes your eyes squint, my squirrel, and the door placed on self-explode, which caused frank jest to holler, "My part-time studies in chinese caligraphy wil never buy me a dog!" Apart from a black cat, things have been kinda troublesome around here. No-one takes out the garbage, and I can't get into the bed. By the time you feed this bear on a dozen railroad tracks, it will be a duck's midnight of fallopian cheese-cake, and a trifle late rotten fruit in dave's mouth is circling the street like a candle, and as you know if I could sing well I wouldn't even be doing this.

the teacher asks the class if any of them know what they want to be when they grow up. Long silence.

then davey higgins, quietest boy in the class, suddenly raises his hand. "Yes, miss. I want to be a dollar sign, miss."


ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt this might be moonday
or choose-day
it's not redneckday,
and it's not thirstday.
maybe it's flyday

dear frank, it's been a day without teeth. a furnace of broken bottles scraping the sky-night fly-sky-light. here your body fly-bright is crowned Louisiana, by Lucy's warchest of soldiery eggs and flotsam mortgaged barnacle days that undulate lost river sperm key enchantment by indelible sink rainbows (did you like that?) yes, flow they squelch my face into a phanton of lice, where liveried neptune baths grassly-doormat in your weasel-meadow kinetics, woof woof and starlight

beneath fishy pylons of greek turnips question patricia's friend about your enormous shadow. but enough about me. i am the only gay eskimo in my tribe. i get hard when i just glance at the north pole. i'm the only eskimo in my tribe serving a life-sentence handcuffed to Malcolm X. i opened the tent-flap and everyone was gone. speaking of your last girlfriend, her passport's a fine example of early cubism. she's seen more countries than i've seen cunts, and i hope she took an umbrella. because it rains in lots of them. i'd rather be a silver fish scuttling along a silent sea, that's poetry frank

i should be shirking, that's where the bunny is, it's all underbound, but everyone's too busy banking to look for a shovel. let's go back to the spoon, all these stars going the song stray are shaking me curvous. but where gives your portly plunder, impervious, they say the yes-men of metal doors are wordking their cemetary posts after an office-pantry raid, of systematic loud burning. oh what's the moist frankly, let's burp on the flagons. she's malice in blunderland. she's mad as a hottie

off with her bed! off with her bed! and the bottlefield we spew up in is giant mug with late flowers of putrid french-fries. satisfy your last damsoned jam in distress, says suzie toast the alsation-robber. pour thing on an oil slick when you drive-by. and buy quietly, for she likes to give alms to cripples. dave's moustache stretches coast to coast. and he's got the photographs. so quest-floor for queen fortuna's holy riverboat, and inquire bullet-proof mast of pidgeon droppings. plus past secret fins with the unmailman. i suspect usually, despite your questioning of avarice in obscure dialects of the riviera. in my opinion a boat and drawbird is the final wrong solution. it's bucking a cheese sandwich which hurts but no onion to weep off.

so now behold the mother-slayer, 100% wool vestibule, chickenshit to the stars, plantain-borrower, a wet tissue on legs, his borrowed norsemen have inverted him, and he is bowed vinegar when his rug has cleaned a pretender, a sure blender for your blood frank. NPR, never pays rent. most pert, graduate voted most likely to succeed in advertising. amy said it was like flirting with a blood-bank. well there's no such thing as a flea hunch. but there could be a bicycle made of ice-cream. and that's why we gotta pot our elves. we don't queen bee long here, and everyone grows it. say hi to the fish, the cardboard hoax, the wax replica of father, and the wooden horse you used to fuck me on. it was a log spine in flow, butter still renders it, solid, nubile, a regular chaplin of chapped hips, a 100% iron-mast egg-cup. yes, you heard it burst near, frank -- the chip has finally failed, and we're planting kids!!

yours, Ren and Stimpy (toothplayers to the cards)

ps. Say hi to Britney Bugaroo. Tell Samantha, the Puke of Edinburgh, a Man called O, George Carlin the Miner, my favorite fridge in Minnesota, a box of red paper-clips, and even that dungeon where we used to play hunger and maggots, that it's time to look after their own elves now

I can no longer be beached by calling sex for sex, sex for three. tutu heaven gone
Beep beep beep

Thankyou, I've been a wonderful ordinance


a flirt in the band is worth two in the audience

i don't want to appear cool, but you made your head and now you have two lice in it

what did one tampon say to the other tampon?

nothing. they were both stuck up bitches
yeah, i should be shirking, that's where the bunny is
sometimes it's chess not flair

O to Chaplin

He never went to school, and his films are black and white

Grace liked Chaplin very much, and as you know grace dances solo

Supreme ballerina, he never lost his feet in the machinery

Blue-collar magician, When he opened his hand, it was never empty

Who has not eaten their own shoe-laces?

Who has not joined the gold rush?

Who has not taken a flower from a blind girl?

and who has not been chased through Heaven by the cops?

his baggy pants still sway down the freeways of this land

Charles of silent Everywhere, dumpster-diver, service and manual, thrift-store shopper

work-shy and over-worked, eyes like cameras, long fingers

we still can't juggle without dropping

but we never dropped you Charlie

for we toss and we turn and we tumble

as if to call you from the grave

and on the very best of days

we take the full applause

from a blue-collar ballerina, a supreme magician

His baggy pants will always dance

And his jet-black eyes will always shine

With love upon this tragi-comedy

This slaughter-house they call America.

He never went to school, and his films are black and white.


Wax Figurines of Coats

Pussy-willowed embrace by mars-light

Cotton-socked junipers in the egyptian coffin

Silver medallions in the rooftops

Live breath the dam, ringo starring the Pope

An argentinian riot of rented rooms

Resistance is fetal

An effervesecent history of miscellaneous charges

A Southern rebellion

Basket-ball players small-changing the bossman

tuning the radio dial of trotsky's eye-brows

Napoleonic snowmen in a Siberian barracks

Every card the jack of Knaves

Every box the Joker

turnstile of Atlantic dog-treaties

and moonlight seranade of Alice

Grandma's fingers baking a cake of rain

Blood pours from a lover's ears

Students leave their coffee-tables and become pictures on the wall

It's a mountain at dawn

With it's barbed-wire clouds

Human birds and passport controls and Mr and Mrs Normal

Selling candy around the race-track of another man's rucksack

Unwrapping boxes of chipped dolls

Sugared embrace of Phillopino'd box-car

Coming and going, as the fussy cars wail outside and in

Union men thrown overboard

Hence the Virgin Queen, and all the messes rejoicing

Ancient inkspot, unbuckles sleep


It's all gold in dead men's teeth


The revolution viewed as a galactic mushroom explosion

A soup of insane fingers

A ravishing teardrop in history's blank eye

A child's shoe in heaven

and the fart of a dying soldier

What fun it would be, to unbutton the jail-house

with its frigidaire windows

and mall-like corridors

Come to bed, says Alice

as the hairs on my legs become storm-troopers.

One more whiskey for the boys in the factory

One more whiskey for the coal-miner's daughter

One more CD-player in a rented room

One more piece of theater.

Come to bed, shouts Alice

Images of beautiful zero surround the camp-fires of the mind


kissing the hand
Jewel In The CrownM sister.

Kissing The Hand that Feeds Me

There's some black stuff coming out of my arm

And a harmonica that swings like Elvis

A bald wig by a bowl of oranges

I'm a prostitute

But my sister refuses to work

I once dated a video-store in Vancouver

she said, do you want to do drugs

I said, I already have

My father wore a pair of scissors

With matching jig-saw puzzles

What do you call a cheerful clairvoyant?

A happy medium

He was proud king of the world's smallest nation
I just called it an armchair

But I promised to continue his rain

I used to teach in a Catholic high-school called John F Kennedy

They've got a picture of Marilyn being raped in the entrance-way

And they call it the holy boast

Why do janitors brush hair off these bridges?

Skeletons sell speed to tourists and the wide-eyed deer

whose fur I gently stroke

She wanted the world to be diffident

The expansive ambition of cactus

I've got my joy in a picture of the Northern Lights

She wasn't much of a biter

But she could drink you under the table

My mother was a fine woman

When I stare over the Rockies I always see her

I won her at the fairground, and carried her away in your coat

Only idiots follow horoscopes

I had my bedroom walls designed by William Blake

Don't be afreud, i'm just junger than you are

She fell from a fishing-boat on the way to treason

I don't know what she looks like

Though no-one except me has ever seen her

She never caused a crisis in the English Monarchy

She is the reason the Mariners had a bad season

She is the reason I collect phone numbers

And I stroke her ears

That she may hear this

I was stinking of him today

When I stepped on a white glove



Will you be boating in the upcoming erection?

Raccoons make strange bedfellows

Why did Bonnie and Clyde cross the road? Because anthrax hadn't been invented

She had a turbulent tabloid shadow

Most people deserve to die, and it will happen

The lake's black octopus slithers a finger up the hill

Adam and Eve don't even do e-mail any more

It's been bad eve since

But every man's birthright is his own sadness

and fortunately long gloves are this season's accessories

They tied me up and made me bite your tongue

The only bubble with this house is it's got a 2-tier love-system

They named several sewage-treatment plants after us

I've got a framed picture of Ground Zero on my wall. It reminds me of Rome.

Now is the winter of our rented tents

The only bubble with poetry is finding a bloody pen

The only bubble with this fish-factory is it hasn't been built

What's there not to love about September the 11th?

If your boss starts shouting, just do to him what I did to you

A pillow made of ten pillows is Marianne Faithful pouring out of my nose

I always knew Stonehenge was built by aliens

then dragged over the Rockies by Pat Robertson's grandma

But everything sacred is built by lips

When I was a little girl, I wished for golden hair

When I was a little boy, I was a goldfish at the fair

I mean, I was a goldfish at the door. I mean, I lasted 2 days

I braked at a stop-sign. I'm very law-abiding. I've been here five and a half years now

Friends bring sandwiches

I hate watching people fuck, every time I close my eyes

Yes, it will hurt

I always envision Buddha in a Victorian top-hat

My favorite street wears a bandana

It was the fear of giving dangerously

I am a teddy bear at dusk

Do not pass wind, do not collect $200

A red leather sofa is marzipan

You keep them talking, and I'll grab the money

I'm watching the sun coming up

It looks like three men unloading a fridge

I always envision Buddha in a Victorian top hat

I am a teddy bear at dusk


z j

The Function of Clothes. (24-hour mall)

My friends

It is hard to state the exact dates of their deaths.

By the time I got to their bodies

They were already so covered in marks

That it was clear they had undergone

Over a period of several years

A countless number of everyday, predictable deaths

Pro-Union At A Peace Rally
I may be against war on Sunday
But I am inside one on Monday
(the above is Quote of the Unmeek.)
people are quite nice and they are
dancing alone is very exciting
dancing with others is also
and very nice
and quite interesting
Alice is Wonderland
A bucketful of clothes and ashtrays
a salamandered fish-hook to the sky's lunar embrace
is sandwiched between hope
which floats white balloon down a child's prayer of riverdom
& the blanket circumference of tattered blue wings
which are my eyes when you drown them in a frying-pan of lizards
your eyes which are jupiter when they sit on my neck
& surround the poor fish in bejeweled despair
and your eskimo'd eyelashes of Detroit steel
are the fairground of simplicity
it begs the vulture to dance sideways into a wall of roses
your legs of snow which are scissors slicing the frowning sky like a glorious teardrop in a monk's hat
starlight enters your panties
& the 2 beautiful babies of your breasts watch me
as I open you with my brazen teeth of bracken and forget-me-knots
there are 12 dead pidgeons on the sidewalk below
and 3 dolphins swam out the window
thru the bars of pollution
which are now overlaid with a multitude of yellow triangles
which is also your body as I kneel before you
and gaze up at this calender of horses
which is kneeling now before me
like a magnificent mare
and the two.m

They're building a statue of a dead admiral downtown. the only material they're using is water
.............................there are seven bicycles inside me

...............................Why defend sane-sex marriages? I prefer insane-sex marriages

My mother said to my sister, Which would you prefer to be called by a man; hot, or smart?

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,My sister paused and then said, Hot. I already know that I'm smart

You are the sun and you are the mountain and everything dies

Gays make a clear distinction between the wild, fun-filled adventure called sex, and the twisted, repulsive things called children

As Winnie Mandela said to Nelson Mandela, see you when you get out

As John said to Yoko, sorry about fucking your sister

When a cop pulls you over and you have no car insurance, the only way out is to kill the cop.

There ought to be a whore. When I kiss stones I explode river yes stream
There ought to be a whore against that tree, officer! rivermen of ballerina'd whine salamandered fish-hook sauce

The world is a white glove I am sucking. Moonlit road-map

..............................and and and

A world in the hand is worth a screw in the bush. Bursting chest of fingers

..............and and and

My only bad habit is cigarettes. Oh, and cowardice. (Left-handed religion)

Love is not the answer, Love is the question.

.........................and and and

.................................................................Let's kick the boots on our asteroid stirrups!


Love Is Rope Made Of Air

Love is a bicycle toppling over a cliff into the grand canyon, laughing. Love is sexual innuendo, released on a DVD by Prince, love is a rotten trick dad played on mom's vagina, love is every card you turn, love is adore, tand a house without a house. Love is a bowling green of transcendent magnitude

Love is why cops in Denver raid the food pantry. Love is the only way Elmer can climb his way from the ghetto. Love is a tragedy, discussed most often at the Waterside AA Group. Love is fleshy cowgirl space pie rhubarb sandwich, love is frigid due to unemployment. Love climbs in at the mouth. Love is not in the spotlight, love is the spotlight

Love is an egg, and a legless worm. Love is never having to say the ploughman's lunch short-changed a ferris-wheel. Love is a scripture under the arm of a naked camel, love is forgiveness. Love is an organ I suck on with my teeth

Love is a rhino dressed as cheese-cake. Love is a bad season smothered in mushroom gravy. Love is what Johnson forgot at the meeting and then shot himself over in the parking garage. Love is the innocence'd ribcage

Love is a sucking-stick for Catholic schoolgirls. Love is my cousin's left testicle's third hair, twice removed. Love is why momma lost the war. Love is a bulging furnace of erotic donuts. Love is the lonely french fry. It's a wolf, in wolf's clothing, and it's a subtle unicorn

Love hits the Corinthians where they give. Love is blind eye to serial killers in the manicotti moonlight. It makes you feel famous

Scientists have recently discovered that love, which was previously thought to be a noun, has in fact always been a verb.

They say when you can catch vomit in mid-air you have won your MA in motherhood

Love is blessed virgin at the end of a jihad. Love is childish camouflage. Love is blade-runner in jester's boom-box of stars and lilies. It's blissfully unaware of the existence of feet

Love makes it hard to concentrate at work, because love is the work

Love doesn't care if you lose your job, and lose your house, and total your car. Love will drive forever through the pouring rain!

Love is not a church. But love sneaks in, and fucks there

Love is blissfully unaware of the existence of feet. It does however, have lonnng fingers

It makes you feel famous because you are! It sure is a bowling-green of transcendent magnitude

Love is the only war worth fighting

for love is our only homeland

Do you mind if I smoke? That's where it fucking starts, right there. Do 'you' mind if 'I' smoke? Do you mind if I sit here? Do you mind if I wear this? Do you mind if I think this? Do you mind if I say this? Do you mind if I do this? And you start shrinking, shrinking, shrinking. Anyone ever heard of Ernesto Che Guevara? Do you think he walked around saying, Do you mind if I smoke?

I want to make a movie about the Cuban Revolution. It'll show Che Guevara and Fidel Castro overthowing the landlords, overthrowing the industrialists, overthrowing the bankers, overthrowing the US-backed military, overthrowing the CIA, then finally walking into the palace of the fascist dictator himself , into his inner sanctum, sitting down and saying "Excuse me, do you mind if we smoke?" I don't think so.

But that's how they get you. Gulliver's Travels, that's about me and you. We're the little people. But we're not really little. Collectively, we're the big guy, we're Gulliver. But we're tied down by the litle people. They have little ropes, lots of little ropes. They're mental ropes, and they tie us down with them so we that we can't go anywhere. And if we want to stand up and move forward, we have to break every one of these mental ropes.

I don't want to get too deep on your motherfuckin' asses, but do you know why yuppies hate cigarettes? I'll tell you. It's because they hate the people who smoke cigarettes.

Now's the time to think all these things through. If you don't, you'll become the person you never wanted to be.

There's a campaign against Wal-Mart. What's with that? Sure, it's non-union and low pay. But so is Home Depot. If you talk to the people who work there, and I do, they'll tell you the same story, It's a heap of shit. There's no difference between Wal-Mart and Home Depot. Yet we're told Wal-Mart should be closed down, and that Home Depot is just great, that it's actually fun, they say, You can get anything you want from Home Depot. I don't know about you, but I can't get everything I want from Home Depot. Oh, you can get everything you need, excepting Alice. How big is this forest? How mushroom do you need?

So why are they so against Wal-Mart? There is an answer to this.
We need to think for ourselves, and see for ourselves, and feel for ourselves.

Officer, take your hands off Alice's tiny neck.

Personally, I think Wal-Mart is an important social intitution. It's the only place where white people get to meet Black people.


I know what's running through your mind. You're thinking, Martin, were you born a fucking genius? Well, no, I wasn't. Karl Marx taught me this. Che Guevara taught me this. The mushrooms taught me this. Alice teaches me this.

No officer, we're not lost, we know exactly where we are.


.....................................................................................................................I'm A Communist


What did the actress say to the blindfolded bishop?

I don't think i'm a dolt enough to know that
I'm not voting for Hilary Clinton. Those bodyguards may look phallic, but they don't have a chance
Officer, take your hands off Alice's tiny neck!

As the king said to his chambermaid, I just lick the pages and then turn them over

I used to have some soccer stars pinned to my bedroom wall, but the team suffered
So I unpinned them, and now they play much better

I've got a 12-year old catholic schoolgirl at home. I don't let her out of the house. She's bi-polar, bisexual, and buys shoes. She used to be angry. Now she's just a muse
I put her in the machine every Friday, like it's a religion. Washing off the little love-stains

I've already written her a collection of love-poems. It's called Throwing In The Towel

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