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

Growing spinach-infertile soil

Never was very good
at knowing when to wear a hat
or not to wear a coat;
You can't see the wind,
I guess
that makes it hard to tell
when the sun might be hiding something
(even on cloudless days).
The breeze must hide around dusty corners,
and behind the pale early spring leaves,
they whisper
though;
You can always listen for them
whispering to one another.
Leaves were never very good
at keeping secrets.

of streetlamps

i've always admired
the inherent beauty
of streetlamps
and the brightness
they cast in the dark.

they know not
the hazards of bumming
cigarettes that kill
men with fatal breath,
tragic necessity.

they serve to illuminate
the frost and the drink,
for the girl
who tramps hopelessly
on the barren sidewalks they lie.

their truth takes form,
quietly singing
for the vagabond
who relies on a shelter
only light can provide.

how warm, these lamps
on which i speak
of my affection
and undying devotion.
how softly they shimmer

and forgive.

unaware of such brilliance,
robbed of forgiveness,
i would find myself lost.
deep in a cruel terrain
of night.