The Never Ending Cling Of The Buzz

This one is for you since you’re fucking listening
Travesty!
Travesty to you is the improper installation
Of meaningless generic artwork, in a building of lies.
“Crimes against the s-e-l-l-l-l-l-f…” we whine.
Combustion canisters, all talk, and no action.
He taps, taps, taps on heaven’s door.
What a joke!
If you care about a pink quilt piece of shit,
And the way they went on showing it to you;
You had best begin fathoming the indiscretions I have taken
With the symmetrical layering of the army surplus linen.
Do you know the geometry of the sheet,
And the static charm of dusty television sets?
All of this mania identical,
All of the routine frantic.
Distraction more urgent to me than pills in shades of butterscotch,
Or oxygen itself.
This my art, daily art, mundane torturous beauty.
It asserts itself in the dull grey of the prairie high-school play quality backdrop, mockingly.
True, epic, travesty:
May I ask, have you felt the crushing half-attended nullification
That involves gum in a pillow case?
In terms of sex:
It’s possible that we could tale cold showers
And, cleanly, be done with this.
“But you just keep me hanging on.”
I slither down low to the ground and play pretend I am in Fellini’s films.
We watch a movie directed by a different Italian;
Di Notti Di Cabiria, and he makes me an alluring nigress
(Like the one I gave to you.)
You know the one, we watched it together,
On an afternoon you could not otherwise occupy.
Watching the women paraded like thoroughbreds
The manes of the teenager’s dark as pitch
So very low… low to the ground.
I was aroused by some deadly eroticism that appealed to my inferiority complex.
I want to be an animal in grainy eight millimeter
But, I know I’m too privileged.
Instead, in terms of sex:
Smother my face with second hand romance novels,
Then read to me aloud from them,While very, very high on cocaine.
That’ll teach me, teach me good.
Oh the unmistakable mildewed scent of irrelevant vanilla, softcore tripe.
Breath into me some viral perversion
The glow of the yellowed shot glasses all around us
Me,
I’m in the forest
I jingle the keys in my fingers suggestively
A Virgin Mary Decal;
patron Saint of the house, the ignition, the trunk And the Princeton.
You should have seen me toting her – all spoiled and rife with sensual deviance.
Oh Madonna, this time I am your son.
A boyish maiden with hair swept back in androgyny, glossed lips
A striped womb that’s accommodating and cleanly.
This is the graveyeard of your misadventure.
That port-swilling bastard of a paper-boy will be coming by soon,
So if you if you don’t happen to mind the briar patch, blonde on blonde…Could we fuck, please?
Let's spoil this pretty canvas.

mental forecast: hazy

hexagram LXII: Hsiao Kwo.

Hsiao Kwo indicates there will be progress and attainment, but it will be advantageous to be firm and correct. it is like the notes that come down from a bird on the wing; -to decend is better than to ascend. In this way there will be great fortune.
1. the first six, divided, suggests the idea of a bird flying, till the issue is evil
2. the second six, divided, shows the subject passing by his grandfather and meeting with his grandmother; not attempting anything against his ruler, but meeting him as his master. There will be no error.
3. the third nine, undivided, shows its subject in taking no extraordinary precautions against danger; and some consequence finding opportunity to assail and injure him. There will be evil.
4. the fourth nine, undivided, shows its subject falling into no error but meeting the exigency of the situation without exceeding in his natural course. if he go forward there will be peril, and must be cautious. there is no occasion to use firmness perpetually.
5. the fifth six, divided, suggests the idea of dense clouds without rain coming from the west. it also shows the prince shooting an arrow and taking the bird in his cave.
6. the sixth six, divided, shows its subject not meeting the exigency of the situation and exceeding his proper course. it suggests the idea of a bird flying far aloft. there will be evil. The case is what is called calamity and self-produced injury.

but this: is it truly better for the bird to fly close to the perch than to fly aloft?

Maraca Override

The eye changes color, expiry of a prescription pill.
Tonight, my affair is with the Highway:
I'm attending the voluptuous repulsion of the Back Up Singers as a different type of learing taffeta casualty,
Spinning off in neutral.

The muscular reality of underlying conflict between us,
Dangles from a country noose.
I take it upon myself to shroud my misleading head wounds,
In plush and garishly patterned layers of gauze.
Revolutionaries in our field,
We sing an ethnic chanty.

Two dimensional you,
Slipping into some overdose dream -
Wrecked on the crags of everything,
You find me non-applicable,
When you tongue the little wound.

Coffin in rich mahogany,
Leads to a cool magic lifestory.
The Métis likeness of some longing;
Two Solitudes then.
Something-something, I demand.
Challenging inhalations in the twilight of today.

Slaves to a burgundy solace,
I describe an Emotional Holocaust
With a Furer in cheap out-sourced plastics.
Too soon to make that joke, you warn me.
My material is shoddy during wartime.

To alleviate your severe to mild headache pain,
You ask me to murder the cat that you only just,
Just,
Decided to name.
You’ll have to get me high first,
And convince me it’s a paper bag.

I'm so glad we agree for once!
Our sinewy impulse manifest
The tentacles grip firmly to the styles of the ancient.

Life’s Luxuries include:
Your choice of flavor of poisonous Kool Aid!
Digging in with the shape of your biblical metaphor.
The pitch of the imperceptible sound,
The viscosity of diseased blood.

Finally,
And ascending with gasoline halos,
You suggest to me that
Thursday might be better.

Ratolinguistics

Forgive me for stealing this line,
But you have Legs like God’s own barge poles.
The legs of a runner, who failed,
Throwing salt over his left shoulder.
You have the legs not unlike a woman’s.

You have an arresting way,
Of exhaling when you’re bored.
It frightened me into a militant attention,
During which I shouted;
SORRY I CAN’T BE PETER SELLERS FOR YOU
Very, very loudly,
My Catholicism showing like a panty-line.

When you’re blue, I am usually red.
And when we play in the paddock,
I am usually the horse.
Your eyes would gouge me then,
All cranberry and grapefruit.
All rat-babies, and cake-pans,
And blonde and orange and furious.

Whenever you come around
It seems like Neil Young is playing.
I am reminded of the way
He shamelessly gave birth to several epileptic sons.
You carried me over dirty Spring,
Illness carries over generations.

Let’s keep skip-ip-ipping along.

Incoming Money

Watching
Porn
Is sometimes unattractive
Especially when I imagine
How I must look
Watching

I can taste the stink
Of the actress
as she licks and mouths
A purple imitation
Penis
It makes me sick

And you know what?
I don’t get
The faux lesbian thing
What is that about?
Fake tits, botox lip-locked
ladies panting

As if they are into members
Of the opposite sex!
Like professional wrestling
But naked
DDPs as Double Penetration
Right down to the backdrop

Watching
These things
can not be fantasy
The "Voyeur" is now a
post-producted audience
Climaxing

O! emotional high speech
Heighten these words and fuck
This business up already