FRIENDS!!!!
Here it is. The final installment of the Epic Poem. Yes, it is all one poem. I wrote it from daily notes I took while trying to …keep my mind distracted in 2015? Anyway it reminded me of Howl or some thing maybe Shakespeare would write. It's too long to submit to regular poetry places.
Luckily I can share it here until Trumpo & Putin come to silence me Pussy Riot style.
And, folks, enjoy it. Because for the next few weeks I will be concentrating on getting into optimal shape for surgery. That means I probably won't be sitting at my desk writing very much. So, yeah, this long long poem should get you through the summer.
TW: very very long poem w/ vitriolic nouns & verbal vinegar
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OCT -- DEC
Part 4 begins w/ brain chemistry of fine silk
I'm finally drunk on oxygen
A bunch of angry guys claim they were raped by sorority sisters
I choose to believe
But I can't take the journey into light for them
A waning smirk of moonlight, too cowardly to lead
I expect to be punched not kissed on the lip
But there was the kiss--sent to my inbox
My face was dusted for prints of disbelief
A smear, a campaign to lure me from my cave?
3 million 4chan orphans displaced from their basements, Can we give them asylum? Change their diapers between
Games? (collect their baby pictures from the mantles of their mental health)
Will they find new hide-outs in younger mothers' wombs?
My skin erupts in lesions just thinking about it. Sunspots, indoor cancer. I can't combat the rash of refugees. FU Jesus, I choose to read the enemy's manifesto. To know him as I knew myself at the console of my inguinal triangle.
An epic hallucination, young hive-master! Low-fiving all reset buttons to childhood. Fetushood if possible. Separation of church and sperm. Integration of egg & stake. All over my hand like lava. Just wait 3 weeks.
(20 days to be exact--new egg anatomy is external jelly with shell embedded. New egg law = must soak in saline cup until man woman & census takers agree there's room for one more)
Resist the moon-colored half-tablet
You may still be the star of YouTube's panic attack culture, for yours are rare gems not just pearls clutched for attention. Well, that was my nervous break, off to the clubs now! Cancel my sympathectomy.
Bitch be trippin in her own ego boots. I roll my eyes that barely qualify as art supplies. With my own pastel brown I doodle more bloodshot, heart-tattoo eyes. I forget to breathe at the psychiatrist's & she charges extra for my monotone hysteria.
I just met my family again. I remember them. New people in there now, some young ones with the same pastel eyeballs I got in the genetic whirlpool app auction. Unnerving feature film so familiar yet utterly foreign (& subtext buried next to its open wound interpretation). I wanted to be the highest octave of Iroquois DNA but my lilting jewel-tone heart particles will go on.
I'm packing my 2-spirit suitcases & taking flight, Across the highway--a phallic trajectory in my second class seating chart citizenry. Why do I always sit by the tall guy, the loud chick, the farting asshole, the fat lady on the snake-bodied plane? Why do they always have to sit next to the compact perfectly polite silently judgmental prick?
Psychotronic interference on a dead doctor's birthday, the curse still hangs in the air. A sword of Damocles edged into a twist above the toilet. You never noticed it there before, hanging by a thread of your own hair. And did you notice the frog in the bowl before it menaced your bits like a rubber missile? You laughed, the curse is lifted!
Now you may walk out of jail. Into a sun-drenched paranoia, roomier than orange jumpsuits but still your throat's zipper tightens. You close the deal in a beige handshake bandage room. The sterile hugs, the remains of a Japanese lunch in your teeth, let's get this done. My brain ballooning like a buyer's market in technicolor popcorn bursts. My past haunted cement gun meadow grey.
The new neighborhood is not a kinghood, clergyhood or mayorhood. Already uncovered lesbian hearts on both sides & oh my, a gay couple walking their mop dogs. A pox on our community? I wait for the signs. Stop octagons bonding with unholy suds. Stick figure vaginas v. full feature length penis film. Transgressive cult v. wholesome family.
There will be no close-captioned karaoke in this subdivision. My own mind ghetto gentrified even if Billy Bob remains behind the fence. A ghost w/ a leafblown intelligence quotient, pouring gasoline on the notes that come from my throat. Busy red-necked ghost, busy busy body, industrious & loud about it & constant as a black dog panting and skirting the body fence, liberally musking my personal property line, panties drying in the sun's pre-paranoid glare.
A panther & a snow leopard displaced from their privilege by ghost dogs. We must remember to honor ghosts. They are most unruly when they are feeling snubbed, shut out of the awards ceremony. We would be nothing without the post-traumatized spirits left here as bellhops for our human baggage bondage felineage chimpanzeal firearmature! MARTYRDOM! DIM SUN! Create more roles for dearly departed supporting souls!
[Post mortem gentrification of their timid zoo exhibit safe spaces] Relocated to a new cage. Strange scent. Sharky texture, taste of other panther dander in the air. These fierce cats dive whisker-first into the sand, into the leopard-spotted arms of Mother Nature.
Glitching rosettes make an artificial animal print. Botched gardening job marketplace for code farmers & seed hackers. I used long chains of ridiculous words to keep the curse from crossing the highway w/ all my treasured mortal contraband. I crossed my fingers and toes and hair, praying uptightly that my luggage-baggage hybrid cherished its carousel moment in a fluorescent aura'd concourse.
Build a wall of American babble! Tall words from the Bible--use thee & thine conservatively, beget a liberal nubile, sayeth unto airport security, 'break a non-stop leg.' Continuity of literal & figurative skeletal structure. Stick figures in the freezer, to microwave later in favor of full feature length meal. 5 courses. Gate 11C.
You don't appreciate your mind until its gone. Neither do I.
I'm so blessed my mind came home & I fed it fish. I had sex w/ it and we listened to the radio's smoky echo. You have a filter and I doesn't. You have fiberglass between you. I have no barrier between worlds, physical or meta. My mind called the dj when the song was done saying fuck, you should be a bartender or somethin man, a microphone guru, a reversion therapist. Monday comes and I tell it to get a job. It writes poetry into a computer & tests it for lead and other poisons. Botulinum, oleander, plagiaristic ivy fibers.
Magically the karma juggles itself & I jack off to a higher authority while my mind watches. One thing is, today requires white male wasps to mention masturbation. I jack off. I jack off. I jackoff. Congratulate me. I can handle myself. Watch, mind-witches!
I won't debate magic. It has no captions. It's not smart enough to understand itself; magic is its own sexy assistant. How did the clowns become Republicans? They were the original tiny car people with so much parasympathy. They were bottle vegetarians, corn worshippers by nature, and the females' menstrual blood is blue, just like in commercials.
How did they become red-face black-blooded meat-worshipping anti-shamen in just eight years' time journey? How public-served the platter of media-built Femicrat hedonism, destroying all fragile male china egos on the tile floor?
First heart-boulder passes from my body like a kidneystone. An arduous journey through tollbooth nerves. Every micro-inch a toll, ever fibrous mile a scalpel dragged across the land, manifest surgery. Big pulsing emerald in your chest, treasured only a few months before inexperienced father orchestrated rage robbery. Birth-heart stolen but a new jewel crushed under the weight of your carbon inhale, waiting to be coughed up in the name of love.
Unpack your Samhain candy from its wrappers. Your treasured sugar weakness has got you through many job interviews, past your tollbooth of teeth so orgasmically. No exaggeration, sugar ten times sexier than cum. And no sweet baby candy lottery liability, never knowing what you'll get.
Give your candy flu to perimenarchaical children, banging your Westminster door/clock chimes. You think they have no idea how their skin feels against your eye. But they love every squirm of your gaze. Subconscious innocent level of a game called human nature 4. Play now.
Tear through the ionized wind in your golf cart limo, open to clowns but occupied by detergent-white beachfront I-can-afford-to-be-eccentric look-at-me, but-not-too-closely privilege. Eccentrics are out early today, like the homeless. They lean against my denial, clowns tied to Salem circus tent stakes.
Children, you're not yet 3-D. Prince of yourself! Duchess of true evol future link asexual asylum homoerotic solution to one percent beasts v. 99 problem angels. Kings & queens of Darwinning, the -ism of the chosen, risen from templates only dreamed of in blogspots, only available through underground surgeon hand me ups in the past operating waiting birth defect peasant room. To coin a bitter phrase, these sacrificial angels come in SASEs.
Lick the skin's torn zeitgeist envelope, from throat to inguinal triangle autopsy, a corner officer whistles at traffic flown against the coroner's octagon of stop. Stop unzipping in the news from a gunshot's inner untold ballistic behaviour. Bits of centipede coined on the sidewalk. Segments step off, mind the crack, untrained, deplaned, uber alles.
Brown November is a raw unloved nerve. A wonderland without production. Lilliputian & silver-leafed, mental angel snow not yet fallen on your marriage. A 30-day headache planted phantoms in uterine cortex, remembering the dawning of your estrogen, your incipient monsterhood. When I was 12 I wanted to be left-handed so badly I almost contracted incurable epilepsy switching right brain bulb on. This girl blinded herself w/ Drano in late adolescent spring. I drank a crystal mixture to end it all, Drano in November '88 election Fall.
Never forget. She is someone I'd like to be friends all over. Between with and without, I'd be her within. As long as I am without me forever. And him to future along, like space luggage.
Body Integrity Identity Disorder before Racial Dysphoria? We'll see at the next Mental Illness Olympiad.
Illness around as long as brains. Brains came from cum inside and after eggs. I am channeling ee cummings for once. This is almost impossible to do. Thank you all combos of my triplicate code which I won't reveal to hackers uninvited. Undisclosed. Dislocated.
There were defects in the very first assembly line in Heaven and we can see them today, still on our roadways. Our visible growth plates so medium-sized our egos can hardly bear to look. The counted calories of evolution, the hatchmarks of how tall our generosity, our eggs so alone in their wide personal space berths.
Our HiQs and Mensa muscles are being destroyed by the print media low brow mogul bullying from inside publications that promote self-scrutiny and drunken consumerism. My mind is menstruating all over the map. Mouth down under drooling opiate necklaces, masses of platelets tip-toeing tectonically from great facial invagination. My lost tooth loses no uterine pulp. Pure, clean, genderless blood to the eyeball barrister, only a microscope jury reveals the deep XX impurity. Even hormones of god won't fix that!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Trans men & their liar bios. I can't be stealthy, I bleed from wherever all over the couch. Onto cheap squares of cotton sewn by children into the core of my being. All my emotions in that spillage. Never once cried until 2014 levee breakage leakage fractured eye socket bio. Made and broken in Taiwan bio, graphic alliterative anime bio. I'm not proud but I'm covered in egg. Humbled by boys I never knew as girls, as they know my ugly embarrassing ancient pronoun life w/ the most dishonest autobiographical deadname telling the story of a lounge act whore. With that name hunting me down everywhere eyeballs were? Storing data about my failed feminine attempts.
Enjoy it. Slurp it up, boy-bitches! You are not the enemy but you humiliate me anyway. And I'd rather be body-murdered than ego-shamed. Guess who'll kill anyone who uses 'butt-hurt' in a sentence-- the Governor of your own for-profit prison system. The more you trap yourself in your wonderland of hate the more you can pocket all the time and watch every chronic addict trapped in zipperspace, cyber solitaire aquarium, buttonhole prophet dimension. Still roaming in a black out, a planet foreign as a country on a cruise you never took from a port of call you never made to your mother about that recipe for noodles. Enjoy it. Slurp it up.
Edit me out of this place, Magic Carpet Cab Co. My address covered by your insurance, on your beaten persian pathway. No zeros, ones on this triplicity's civic search engine. My memory's a three layer lasagna for visual learners, or garage surf salary for the auditory special needs aka annoying other mothers' loin fruit recipe. Figure out this 3-line enigmatic stanza generator.
Skate away w/ me on the brown ice of post apocalyptic Thanxgvng. Magic carpet GPS delivered me to a doorstep vaguely sadistic, no definitive landmarks announce my homecoming, I ring a doorbell, a family answers & invites me in. I have two thumbs, an eye, a heart, maybe even a spade. Passing as human again.
I cut back on my meds, have a girl scout cookie, drug-choice of childhood. Fetal lemon bars sucked & pooped past homunculus umbilicus. Newly minted, chocolate smeared, news delivered in envelope skin next generation clairvoyant in that artificial manner. I laugh because once I foretold the news & now I'm supposed to respond.
I didn't have the psychic chromosomes, I had to write them in. My own liberties left a long empty line for character assassination. Or spontaneous religious combustion. I call my alter companion personality. My first amendment freedom fighter on a blastocystic level, founding fathers down to their cell walls. Exploding in print across the pond in Paris, then the most vicious Dear Jacques letter, sprayed w/ a perfume of gun powder, cauterized flesh.
The romance farted & died.
A "transgendered" luncheon I hardly remember w/ my lasagna brain. How many "transgendereds" have Jesus, have always felt Jesus, when I could only smell the death of man in any moldy Bible cobweb church pew tomb. I need to get home to my toolbox. Some assembly prevents suicide. Give me privilege or give me death-meth-math-mothballs-huge inheritance-thanks grandma.
Did Vin survive Juliet's nervous breakdown, or was it his all along? If I keep writing long elastic automatic assault paragraphs like this one we may find out before another mediapocaplyse distracts us from squirrel sunset leafblower corroborated horror story on a frontpage porch to the south, I read this whole life sentence & nobody yawned, nobody ranted, nobody posted how blessed on Facebook, brag about being horny again, off the SSRI nightmare circuit, you reflect the ideal orgasm candidate. Poster child for rubbing & rubbing & tugging & growing number. A vertical tear. A lateral wardrobe change, a skin costume graft & even Goodwill won't touch your social leprosy.
I must be responsible for sounding the trigger alarms I know I will trip in so many pretty heads. You can't do that parallax twilight see/monkey saw zone life sentence episode. Season six forever. You have been warned, I expect no flowing of diagonal citizen crocodile cop tears. I expect lateral cooperation -- I am a student trapped in a professor's body.
Ghost was a blowjob queen. She boos & hoos all night about the chore. It's all ghost-poet gibberish, it comes out paranoid, a bouncing paycheck of vocab babble, vernacular tabernacle cackle. Walls surrounding american family life. Ding-dong! Edit the evolution. We must go faster for we should've been there by now.
Edit the elastic parameters of poetic justice, license platelets. No plasma gravy w/ art in our time. Dinner time! Come & edit the errors, enlarge the algorithms of success! Use exclamations for utmost urgency. What Chinese exclamations tattooed on the bud-tender's arm length? Beauty! Motherhood!
Beasts. Fairy tales told to knocked up teenage women of any plastic terminal number. I order a strain of chronic pie so potent. I order an ounce of perpetual crumbs, a stay at home calendar, lost before I could crack the packaging. Bonding with nature in synthetic fibers. Congratulations on the mists of your oblivion!
Stoneybrook the institute for the Study of Masculinities. More than one kind of man? The gun kind? The baseball kind. The preacher kind? The disappearing kind? The magician, Pope, king? That lean power hunger turned to fat in the business factory? Dad factory too(not as many safety regulations as mom's disputed suicide birthday factory) The 80% in Congress, the 99% of the 1%. Pacman minus sliver of pie story is his. We make his story pun at her expense? Or we pay her to be our friend/wife/prostitute for eternity? Blowjob dad dude babysitter lover, rose petal begrudging against wallet pocket bulge not rushed by blood, thirsty for penetration of mob mentality, not that bulge, oh no… I meant the distant bulge of the 11th dimension Y chromosome curiosity dictating pattern of human evolution…
Never ask me to believe you are the victims, victory speech troll venom. We all fucking win. Gender studies as a stanza--how's that working for ya?
Inability to think thoughts that have any neural traction. Every thing must come by divine insight or be totally overlooked. Alzheimer's Eve. Making sense is something I never was good at. Song lyric bird nest alphabet soup endorsement from a high friend, in places we never ought to insert our espionage.
Friend request from a little fucker I haven't seen in a long time--let be fwend!! I was always your friend, mate. You let go of my smile, my hand-picked summer. I had to replace you w/ cherries. It sucked, so sour to the triskadelic heart valve twisting aperture into your fresh sushi mind. I love you, it's nothing more complicated than that. You are the one I would be if I were born in your place. Simple as that.
The Last Few Suppers of The Year bring poisoning. Ghost germs & vampiric bacteria won't die under acidic duress. So back up the bulwark they flow, oystering vomit valve in paroxysms, rewinding the last few suppers and dropping them in the return slot. What's that? Anachronism. Someone wrote this poem long after I did. Someone rewound a Pollack in the bathroom at an auction. Depreciation at its finest hourglass figure. Slash salary.
Itch from the auction last hourglass shower, undulating lemniscate of skin, it retracts claws, licks infinite landscape of cell growth in favor of laser expensive hijinx technique. Itch for the trigger, be your own undoing, the leaning lurching listing tower of Belle Reve. But the finger landed on a trigger in California…
San Bernardino cubicle terror. Radicalized accountants. Obedient wife & weapon between desert & ocean gap. Pay with your blood for being dickish american money monks. Keys to abandoned house--leave baby out of it! Bring more guns to focus, cameras to wear like journalistic mind insulation. And we got'em & their secrets dead too lying silent, never again tweeting like stool pigeons. Shit doves.
Learn a lot from terror seminars. How to use "upsell" tactics. From shit-covered cross sections of wildlife to all Allah entitlements covered by extravagance insurance, you will appreciate at auction. Under [preferred god] beauty is no longer "feminine" Comedy is no longer "masculine"
How we tell who we want to fuck? It's up for debate. Live scripted television chowder-headed chutney-faced debate. From this pool of infinite lemniscating genius figurines. Not a famous poet or photographer among them, though our most recent national embarrassment knows how to paint. He cleanses his karma with linseed oil. So far it's working.
I know how to undo things.
I am a famous poet, a rocket scion test subject, I am someone who says 'I am' all day long, I am this, I am that…hear my voice in the next paragraph, like Wonder Mike in Rapper's Delight, spilling my guts, big bold automatic thought noodles. So no one accepts these empty bliss baskets
Blessing bags w/out socks, or whiskey. Sounds of cursing on the curb.
I was expecting an older gentleman!
I am an older gentleman.
NO!!!! Nooo. You're a lovely young lady!
And there go my radiance & confidence in matching foot-hurt steps to the Twilight's eerie anti-tune, zoned for horror but lying within deed restricted limits. I read for the Long Boat Key crowd, then knock myself out of the park, Hindu cushion, ersatz post modern foreskin…
…this foreshadows what's to come. Tarantula venom. A real toll for the burning bridge behind you and you pay with patience decades long, and you pay again with money, continuous wads, no lump sum for the body gods. You pay again w/ dignity, your guinea pig status hung low on the totem pole's scrotum. And you pay once more with the knife, good old time travel blade distorted shapes and cookie cutter scars for life. Faded memories meow from the Xmas void. Past presents, we ask and tell our parents for hours. Conjure future-shaped saint relatives.
I can't catch the slung shrapnel of arrows but I have a strange new forcefield now. Field of aroused sprouts, herbs & succulents. Keeps me immune to stink eye, beak-play, public execution, for unlawful carnal knowing, displayed in splayed tarantula stockade, cross-hatch crucifix unstunk by eye contact from this future of folklore that couldn't possibly walk in the flip-flops of Mesopotamia.
Cradled callous in foreskin forcefield footwear, your keratinized journey kernel bursting open in vertical tears along the horizon, your cognitive counter-melody, your powerful & aroused human traffucking, leaving the garden lush, warm plastic snow in a Xmas globe.
6-8-16
